


So I Keep on Waiting ('til I’m Back Where I Belong)

by AlyKat



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Animal Transformation, Because the world needs more Corgi!Clint, Corgi!Clint, Coulson's sweatshirt is practically its own character, Good old fashioned creative licensing., Humor, M/M, No animals were harmed in the making of this story, Pining, Pre-Slash, Story + own Fanart, Where the number of animal shelters in Manhattan are made up, Yes. I drew Corgi!Clint pictures and I'm willing to share them with you all, and the points don't matter.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/pseuds/AlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were a lot of things S.H.I.E.L.D trained its agents for. There were a lot of things Clint Barton learned to pick up on his own. But there’s one thing his time in the circus, on the streets, and that S.H.I.E.L.D couldn’t prepare him for. Being turned into a dog? Yeah, S.H.I.E.L.D and the streets kinda failed to train him for that one.</p><p> </p><p>WARNING: There are a few moments of embarrassed thoughts of suicide (like the mortified "Oh God! Someone please shoot me to make it stop!") but nothing of seriousness. Please see inside for more warnings.</p><p>**Story originally posted 1.21.13. Has just been updated with reworked/rebeta'd/typo-free chapters.**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: There are a few moments of embarrassed thoughts of suicide (like the mortified "Oh God! Someone please shoot me to make it stop!") but nothing of seriousness. Also, there's at least one moment of Clint's little Corgi body doing what all healthy, male dogs do. It's not some weird, animal kink. I swear! It's just...alright, minor spoiler...it's no different than if he got aroused as a human. Only far more embarrassing as there's NOTHING he can do to hide it. It's obvious and quite literally out there for the world to see. I've had many male dogs in my life. These things happen. It's embarrassing for all who are involved. Other than that, it should be trigger free and just an amusing read all around.
> 
> Also, there are special guest appearances by two of my very dear friends who actually helped to inspire this story. One volunteers at a shelter and it was while I was hanging in the lobby while she was taking pictures of the E-list dogs that I got the idea for this story. And also she and my other friend happen to play Hawkeye and Coulson on Tumblr and have this kind of running joke about Clint wanting to steal Coulson's sweatshirt but every time he tries it's not where he thought it was. So...yeah...Coulson's sweatshirt makes a few appearances also cuz that's just been amusing the hell out of me for the past few weeks. 
> 
> Enjoy folks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story has been completely re-beta'd and re-worked to remove typo's and makes some sentences and sections read a little better. Also, be on the lookout for a PODFIC version of this story to be released in the very near future.

When the smoke had settled and the battle was won, Clint “Hawkeye” Barton paused only long enough to take stock of the situation. The team had won-- no big surprise there; there was limited damage done to the city, which, okay yeah, that kind of was a big surprise. They very rarely pulled things off without taking down half the city with them. And somehow in the middle of everything he had fallen from his perch and landed smack dab in the middle of a shrubbery.

In the distance, he heard someone shouting his name, calling out for him and demanding he report in. His brain was fuzzy and his entire body felt like it suddenly wasn’t his own. He could feel the pokes and jabs of the shrub’s branches, but they didn’t scratch at his bare arms or face like he thought they should. In fact, it didn’t hurt at all. _Fucking weird…_

“I’m good…always wanted a shrubbery to break my fall,” He answered. Or at least, _thought_  he answered. Eyes wide, he stared out in front of him. A dark black nose was directly in front of him, at the end of a white and golden orange snout. Head slowly tilting down, Clint’s jaw dropped.

His clothes were puddle around him, short, stumpy white legs stark against the dark fabric. This…was not good. He tried to clear his throat, to try and call out to the others again, only to have a pathetic whimper escape his mouth, followed by another yip. _Oh motherfuc---_ …

“Barton! Report!”

Blue eyes darting to the comm left abandoned on the ground next to his clothes, Clint flinched at the sound of Coulson’s voice. The man actually sounded concerned. It was a sound the archer had never liked hearing in his handler’s voice, and yet he was notorious for putting it there. With another whimper and quick glance at himself, Clint did the first and only thing to come to mind.

He ran.

\----------

Tony frowned as he came to an abrupt landing next to the shrub. He could have sworn he’d seen Barton fall in that direction and land in the plant. He was positive of it. He’d had jokes lined up and waiting to be shot off at the archer because of it. His most spectacular one was sure to get him bitched out by Coulson, but it wouldn’t have mattered because any joke that involved Barton burying his face in a “bush” was just too epic to pass up.

Yet, looking down at the plant, there was nothing to indicate the man ever being there. Well, nothing if you didn’t count the archer shape indent from impact. And the uniform lying empty, tangled and torn in the leaves. That kind of gave it away that Clint had been there. Though it didn’t explain why the man suddenly decided to go streaking through New York City.

“Alright, Barton has officially lost his mind. Coulson, put out a BOLO or an APB or whatever it is you boys do when you’re looking for someone. Might wanna mention that the idiot is naked”

“Stark, your humor is not appreciated at the moment.”

“I’m not joking this time. I’m staring at that idiot’s uniform and comm., but there’s no Barton to be had in it.”

Silence fell over the channels. Reaching his hand out, Tony poked at the leather and Kevlar black uniform, eyes darting up and down the street. It wasn’t possible for Clint to have gotten very far; it hadn’t taken Tony _that long_ to get down to street level, and honestly everyone would have known if the archer had gone running through the streets nude. There was bound to be an uproar or some poor little old grandmother screaming. 

“Stay at that location. We’re coming to you.” Steve’s voice was still in his command mode in his ear, leaving no room for argument.

“Believe me, I am not going anywhere.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Clint panted, literally panted, tongue dangling from his mouth and everything. God it was humiliating! Really, who came up with a ray gun that could turn a person into a fricking _dog_? Of all the animals in the world…a dog. And not just any dog, a short dog. With stumpy little legs and everything. It was some cruel joke on him, it had to be. It wasn’t even like he was the shortest of the bunch. Bruce, when he wasn’t Hulking out, was the shortest! Hell, Coulson was even shorter than Clint, so if this was a play on him being short, it was stupid and made no sense.

Glancing up and down the street, he groaned inwardly. Everything looked so different from ground level, and in various shades of blue, grey and yellow. Things were still sharp in his vision, but his hearing and his sense of smell seemed to have skyrocketed too. Smell especially. God he never realized how disgusting New York actually smelled. All he wanted to do was find somewhere safe to hide, at least until he could come up with a plan. The others could help him, sure, hell Tony and Bruce would probably have a fucking nerdgasm over what happened to him. It was the jokes and poking he didn’t want to deal with.

If he could find his way back to S.H.I.E.L.D, there was a chance he could sneak in and hide for awhile. Finding Coulson’s apartment would be even better, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen. At least not at that height. Hell, he couldn’t even read the street signs from that low.

Giving a low growl of frustration, Clint moved to step out into the middle of the sidewalk, totally unaware of the hands reaching down to scoop him up from behind. A muzzle was quickly wrapped around his snout when he opened it to cry out in surprise. Panic rose up in his throat, his eyes going wide as he twisted and squirmed in the man’s hands.

“Dispatch, this is Dobson. I’ve got a stray. Let Alexander know I’m bringing him in.” The voice sounded very official and very much like the cops Clint used to run from as a young adult, back in the days before the Avengers and before S.H.I.E.L.D. When he spotted the NY Animal Control pick-up truck it kind of made sense.

_Well it’s a fine fucking mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time, you jackass,_ he thought to himself as the officer struggled to keep his hold on the squirming dog. _You should have waited for the others. Fucking idiot, Barton!!_

Being manhandled into the back holding container, Clint couldn’t help but whimper pathetically. He’d never been a big fan of police like people and the stupid animal control officer was close enough at the moment. They were basically police that arrested animals instead of people, so yeah, totally close enough. He paced back and forth inside the crate, glad the cop didn’t think up a way to restrain him back there. If that bastard had found the means to actually cuff him and keep him from moving around, muzzle or no, Clint would have found some way to bite him.

He glanced out the barred window of the container, fear and panic clear in his eyes as he realized the truck was driving further and further away from Stark/Avengers Tower; quickly leaving the nice side of town and heading towards the far more residential –albeit a bit lower class residential—side of town. Another whimper escaped him.

This was definitely not good.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Coulson stared at the screen, watching the images over and over again as if things would change if he watched enough times. He watched as Clint’s body fell into the bushes, completely engulfed by the green branches. Nothing emerged from the shrubs though. There was no blond-brown head popping up anywhere, no black and dark burgundy uniform attached to a muscled body rolling out. The only thing that came out of those damn shrubs was a terrified looking little dog.

A very terrified looking little dog.

“A Corgi.”

The voice behind him brought him back out of his thoughts. Grey eyes turning up, he blinked at the source.

“It’s a Corgi. My grandma had a whole herd of them when I was a kid. Annoying as hell. Seems about right for Barton, actually.” Tony waved his hand absently as he slumped down in the chair next to the agent and pointed back to the screen. “I’ve had JARVIS start going through all the street cams in the area he took off in. So far he’s been able to track him as far as West 117th St. and Lenox Ave.”

With a slight nod of the head, Coulson looked back to the screen, watching as a new image appeared on the screen. An image of that little dog – _Barton_ —darting through crowds and around legs, no one giving him a second glance or thought, flashed in front of him.  He wasn’t an expert by any means about dogs, he’d only had one growing up, but he liked to believe he knew a great deal about the man he’d been working with for years.

“He was disoriented. Fight or flight kicked in.”

“Yeah well, I’d probably flip my shit too if I suddenly turned K-9.” Tony muttered, his eyes never lifting from the screen.

Coulson just stared at the monitor.

“Barton was heading away from the Tower,”

“Hey, you said it yourself. He was disoriented. I would be too at that level. Jesus, I don’t know many times I’ve woken up on the floor and had no clue where I was cuz things looked different from that angle.”

His eyes slowly peeled away from the footage and he leveled Tony with a blank stare. It wasn’t a secret that he and Stark weren’t exactly the best of friends, and that Coulson had, on a number of occasions, threatened to tase the man if he didn’t shut up. Oh how he wished he’d had his taser with him at that moment.

Pushing himself away from the surveillance console, Coulson moved to stand up, straightening his suit jacket as he did so. He was about to open his mouth and once again lecture Stark on his lack of compassion for situations when the level voice of the omnipresent AI cut him off.

“ _Sirs? It would appear that Agent Barton was last seen at the corners of West 117th and Manhattan Ave.”_

Tony’s head shot back to the screens, Coulson moving to lean around the engineer to watch as new footage was brought up.

“What do you mean ‘last seen’? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means he hasn’t been seen since that intersection, Stark.”

“No. Fucking. Duh.”

The pair watched as Clint stood in the middle of the sidewalk, head swaying back and forth as if looking for anything that might be familiar. It was disheartening to know that the footage was already three hours old, nearly four, and that Barton was no doubt long gone from that particular area. Still, they watched in hopes of finding some sort of clue, anything that could tell them where their missing team member had disappeared to.

The crowd surrounding Clint thickened, blocking him from view of the traffic camera for just a moment. When it cleared, Tony let out a string of curses as Coulson’s grip on the console tightened. A muzzled and squirming dog was being carried in the arms of a man Phil assumed to be an animal control officer. Perfect. Just what the archer needed, to be picked up in his current state and hauled off to some pound.

“JARVIS! Find me a different camera angle. Where’d that dog catcher take him?”

_“Absolutely, Sir._ ”

In an instant, the angle changed, the images switching positions until they finally focused and settled. The footage showed the man carefully placing the dog into a crate in the back of a pickup truck, New York County Animal Control the only words visible to the camera. Tony turned his attention to the keyboard in front of him, his fingers flying across the keys in an attempt to change the camera angle manually.

“Stupid, fucking taxis! Get the…why the hell are you so close to that…Goddamnit…” Tony let out a few more curses before his fist hit the surface of the console.

Coulson’s eyes remained on the screen as the officer climbed back into the truck and moved into the flow of traffic. There was no clear shot of the license plate, or the truck number. Without either of those, it’d be next to impossible to find out where Clint had been taken.

“How many shelters and rescues are in Manhattan?” Coulson’s voice was flat and calculating.

“ _There are roughly 200 rescues, shelters and humane societies in the Manhattan area.”_

“How many within a five mile radius of where Barton was picked up?”

“ _Approximately 115, Agent Coulson._ ”

Tony let out another string of curses as he raked a hand through his already mused hair. This was not going to be an easy find, especially not in New York. Lips pressed in a tight line, Phil turned on his heels and started for the door.

“Send the list to my phone.”

_”It is already done, Agent Coulson.”_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The holding cell, or at least that’s what Clint was calling it, was cold and noisy. There was a pathetic excuse for a blanket lying on the hard concrete floor. It had clearly been washed and fluffed recently but, well, it had definitely seen better days. A bowl of water was in one corner next to a shallow dish filled with brown kibble. Right, like Clint was supposed to eat _that_? Not a chance. No matter how hungry he was, there was no way on God’s green earth he was going to subject himself to eating _dog food_! Tony would never let him hear the end of it!

There weren’t even any toys in the cell with him. Nothing for him to distract himself with. Instead he was left to pace the cell nervously and back his butt up into a corner, head lowered and glaring out through the bars at whoever approached. He wanted to growl at them, to lash out and bite their fucking faces off if he was totally honest, but he wasn’t dumb. He knew what happened to animals who got labeled ‘human aggressive’ and frankly? That was one label he really didn’t want to get stuck with. Even though he wasn’t happy about being manhandled and checked over for typical canine diseases (and he _definitely_ did _not_ approve of having that fucking thermometer shoved up his…well, you know where it got put), he made sure to behave himself. _Boy, Coulson’s never going to believe that one…_

Time seemed to go by differently for him. It was disorienting and confusing. He would fall asleep at random times, and not even because he was tired or anything. He’d just lie down and the next thing he knew he was blinking himself awake and standing to stretch his legs. Was it hours he’d been there? Days? It didn’t feel like it’d been weeks or months, so at least he didn’t have to worry about that. Plus, he was pretty sure they would have moved him into a different pen if it had been more than a few days. Last he’d heard, shelters usually gave people three days to come claim their pet before said animal was tossed into the “adoption” pile.

Clint’s stomach roiled uncomfortably at that thought. At the whole situation, actually. He hadn’t done so well the first time around when he’d been up for adoption. Him and Barney both forced into baths and nice clothes, their hair combed respectfully and told to be on their best behavior during the orphanage’s “Open House” days. They’d watch as their friends were picked and taken home, the few kids under the age of five who were all just so precious and adorable were almost always the first to go. Clint had been pulled aside by a couple once when he was seven. They’d seemed nice enough and really interested in adopting him. When he’d asked if Barney was coming along, their face’s shut down and he knew their answer was going to be a no.

No one approached the Barton Brothers again after that.

Now he was stuck in a shelter. An orphanage for wayward, lost or abandoned animals.

Moving to the back corner of the cell, Clint emptied what little he had in his stomach. Well, at least he’d get a new blanket out of the deal. Maybe one that was even just a little bit fluffy and comfortable.~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As much as SHIELD liked to boast about their near perfect track record, very few things ever went according to plan. Ever. Most times it was easy enough to blame it on bad intel, or an agent who was too stubborn to listen and obey orders (that agent wasn’t always Barton, amazingly enough), or even sometimes on the weather. Now Phil got to blame things on aliens, mad scientists, and emo-hipster-college brats with too much time, money, and supplies on their hands.

Which, in all honesty, was why it didn’t surprise him when his plans to visit each and every one of the shelters and pounds on his list got pushed back two days. He had to deal with the flying pie tins (at least, that’s what he thought they looked like) that were attacking the Lower East Side; and not three hours later a fleet of genetically enhanced, three foot tall geese that invaded from the Hudson River. He really hated geese. Then, on top of all that, he had to spend the following day completing the paperwork and debriefings for both those battles. It was all time that he could have spent trying to track down his missing agent, because despite what Stark believed, SHIELD did _not_ embed their agents with tracking devices.

Coulson was seriously starting to reconsider this for special cases, though.

Barton being the most special of them all.

On the third day of Barton’s disappearance, Coulson rose earlier than usual, wanting to get an early start on the day so that he could get to as many shelters as possible before anything happened to the man…uh…dog…whatever. Dressed in his favorite pair of perfectly broken in and worn out faded jeans, he pulled his sweatshirt on over his head, barely even bothering to smooth down his hair before he headed out the door.

Just like when he’s in his suits, Phil Coulson was the picture of unassuming. He could blend into the crowds of New York seamlessly no matter how he’s dressed. With a purple collar in his hand, complete with name tag and fake vaccination tags, he patted his back pocket to ensure the forged proof of ownership papers were still with him as he moved into the first of many animal shelters on his list. It was easy enough to play the part of the distraught, middle-aged, middle-class dog owner, traveling all over the city looking for his beloved pet. No one questioned him as he presented the collar and proof of ownership before shaking their heads at him to say no dog matching his description had been brought in. It was both a relief and a frustration for him every time he heard those words.

The sun was already down below the skyline by the time he shuffled into the last shelter of the night. It wasn’t anything fancy, maybe even a little small and quaint, and the walls were painted a cheerful pale yellow. Noting that he only had ten minutes before they were supposed to close, Coulson took a deep breath—there was no more pretending to it now, he was tired and possibly a little discouraged—as he stepped up to the counter and leveled the younger woman with a weak, pathetic smile.

“Hi,”

Blue eyes shot up from behind a pair of red-purple glasses, tendrils of red hair fell from a ponytail around her face. She couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five, possibly, and had a pleasant enough smile that just barely reached her tired eyes. Yeah, Coulson could relate to that look.

“Hi. Is there something I can help you with?” The girl, Logan if her name tag was correct, asked, shoving herself away from her desk as she moved towards the counter.

“I hope so,” Coulson gave a tired half-laugh as he set the collar down on the counter and lifted his eyes back to her. “My dog slipped his collar a couple of days ago. I’ve been trying to find him. A little Corgi? Blue eyes? About 5 years old. I…don’t suppose you’ve had any dogs come in like that, have you?”

The key to a good lie or con is to give just enough information, but not too much. He could have easily spun a tale about how they’d been going out to play ball in Central Park when the dog caught sight of a rabbit, wiggled out of his collar and took off after it. How he’d been searching the city high and low calling for him. All of that would have been too much though. No, it was better to stick with the basics and fill in the details as needed later.

A spark came to life in Logan’s eye though that made a coil of hope wrap itself around his stomach. When the girl pressed a button on the intercom and called for her co-worker to come to the front of the shelter, Coulson suddenly felt more awake than he’d been in the past few hours.

“Oh I really hope the baby we’ve got in the back belongs to you. He sounds like he might be yours. Corgi’s with blue eyes are pretty rare. We just might be able to help you, Mr—“

“Barton. Phil Barton.” He wasn’t about to give them his real name. Besides, Sitwell had been a jackass and thought it funny to put ‘Phillip J. Barton’ on the proof of ownership documents. Apparently there was some joke floating around HQ that it was hard to tell who had control over who in his and Clint’s particular handler/asset relationship, and supposedly there were rumors of some hidden _romantic_ relationship. Which, no. Definitely not. He might let Barton get away with a lot more than he does anyone else, and yeah, okay, so he lets Clint sleep on his office couch when the man can’t get to sleep in his own quarters…and there may have been more than a few times where the two stood a little too close to each other, or laughed a bit too loud and long together (and no…the fact that Jasper had somehow managed to change Coulson’s ringtone for Barton to Bonnie Riatt’s “Something to Talk About” was not lost on him), but that didn’t and shouldn’t mean anything.

They’d known each other for over ten years. They’d been working together for nearly as long as that. They’d were every bit as professional as they ever had been and that was it. No secret pining; no longing, wistful gazes to each other. They were co-workers. Friends at best and nothing more. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

A door to his right opened a moment later, letting another woman come sweeping into the lobby. He couldn’t help but give a slightly amused quirk of an eyebrow when he realized the one too was about the same age as the other, and like her co-worker had blue eyes, stylish framed glasses, and a sort of quirky-yet-fashionable cut red hair. _Must be a requirement to work here: mid-twenties, blue eyes, glasses, red hair. All others need not apply._ He thought to himself as the woman moved up to greet him.

“Nicole, this is Mr. Barton. Pretty sure we’ve got his little guy cowering in the back.” Logan’s smile was brighter than it had been when he first approached the counter, lighting up her eyes completely as Nicole’s own eyes widened hopefully.

“Really? Which one?”

“That Corgi that got brought in.”

The second woman gave a soft, wispy sigh as she turned her smile back to Coulson. “The one with the most gorgeous blue eyes I’ve ever seen on a dog? And believe me, dogs with blue eyes creep the hell out of me, but this guy’s eyes…they’re just so…”

“ _Human_ ,” Logan finished the thought for her.

“Yeah! Exactly!”

Coulson’s eyebrows nearly rose to comical heights as he glanced back and forth between the two. He wasn’t even going to lie; the energy coming off both of them was enough to restore some of what he’d lost throughout the day. Allowing himself an honest smile, he chuckled softly as he nodded.

“Yeah, that sounds about right for him. Would you mind if I took a look at him?”

“Oh! Yeah, no, c’mon! This way. He’s in the back, I’ll show you.”

It wasn’t a long walk through the shelter, noisier than one of Stark’s infamous parties though. The sound did little from dissuading Nicole from talking, explaining to him how it worked when a dog was brought in off the street and the three day claiming-window before the animal was put on the adoption list.

“We actually would have been putting him on that list first thing in the morning. You’re both lucky you got here when you did.”

Coulson’s stomach lurched at that thought. He knew about Clint’s past, the orphanage and bad experiences with adoption days. Something tugged hard at his chest, forcing him to swallow thickly and give a small nod.

“Very lucky…” he murmured softly, more to himself than anything else as they turned one last corner and came upon a smaller room. There were a dozen or so cages cleaned and lining the wall, with only a handful of animals occupying them.

 “We’ve all been kind of worried about him.”

“Worried?”

“Yeah…his first day here he threw up in his cage and since then we haven’t really been able to get him to eat or drink. We tossed some chicken pieces in there with him earlier today, he ate those, but he won’t touch any of the kibble we put in the dish for him. He’s just been laying on his blanket, staring out at us and looking--it’s gonna sound crazy but, he’s been looking really sad. I’ve never seen a more expressive dog.”

The tightness in his chest spread down to his stomach, twisting it painfully. He remained quiet though as he was lead to one of the last kennels. There was an empty kennel on either side of the one they stopped at and Coulson felt all the worse for it. Isolated, alone, trapped, all of the things Barton hated most. Add on top of that being trapped in a dog’s body for three days, in a strange and unfamiliar place, and he could see why they’d had problems getting him to eat or drink. They were lucky he hadn’t lashed out and tried to make a break for it.

Taking a deep breath, Coulson slowly lowered himself to a knee, ducking ever so slightly to peer into the back of the bed. He could see the lump of a body, its back to the kennel door, and chest rising and falling in only the subtlest ways. _Oh Barton…I’m sorry…_

“Hawkeye?” His voice was quiet and gentle, filled with hope and affection. There was a moment where nothing happened, where even the dog’s breathing seemed to stop. “Hawkeye, c’mon, I’ve come to take you home.”

He watched as the dog’s ears twitched, head lazily lifting from its resting place and turning to stare out sadly through the bars. Coulson felt his throat tighten at that look. Hell be damned if people hadn’t been right about Barton; he had the most pathetic puppy-dog face and eyes of anyone employed by SHIELD. The fact was made even worse now that the man was, in fact, a dog. The lost look and sadness were evident in those familiar blue-green eyes for a suffocating moment. Until recognition hit.

His body was in the air and twisting around in an instant. Clint stumbled over his own stumpy legs in his attempt to rush the door and break free. Coulson couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the disgust and indignation flash through the dog’s eyes. He knew just from that look alone the man trapped inside was cursing up a storm at his traitorous legs.

Next to him, Nicole gave a bright laugh, her own knees coming down to the floor next to him. Her hair swayed back and forth as she looked down into the kennel and reached out to open the door.

“Ya know, he hasn’t hardly moved the whole day, not even for the chicken. If he’s not yours then you must be some kind of dog whisperer or something.”

The lock on the gate had barely clicked open before Clint dove out of it and straight into Coulson. The fact that Clint literally leapt into his arms was enough to throw the unflappable agent for a spin. Sure, he’d held Barton before, but it had been for missions: like when the man was too stubborn to put a coat on and wound up shivering up a storm once the objectives were met, or when he’d been shot and needed to be helped to a safe house, or even possibly for those few undercover ops that required two grown, consenting adult males for…well, he wasn’t going to think about those times.

He forced himself to blink back his surprise at suddenly having a bundle of wiggling, squirming gold and white fur all over him. The impact had been enough to catch him off balance and send him straight onto his rear, arms instinctually wrapping around Clint to make sure he didn’t drop him. There was a startled smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched the dog squirm out of his arms, sit back to study his face for a moment, and then lunge once more. He had to admit, even in compact Corgi form, Barton was stout and solid and had enough force behind him to send Coulson from sitting up to flat on his back in a heartbeat.

From beside him, he heard the two women laugh out loud as Clint moved to stand firmly on his chest, those very human eyes glaring down into his own. Coulson didn’t need to hear the words to know what he must be thinking and conveying with that glare.

_It fucking took you long enough! What? Stop off somewhere for those fucking donuts you love so much? Three days, Coulson! THREE DAYS!_

Giving a snort right in his handler’s face, Clint turned his head and stumbled ungracefully down off the man, officially giving him the ‘Fuck you. I’m not talking to you’ attitude. And if Phil happened to feel incredibly guilty and properly chastised then, well, no one but his own conscious had to know.

He shoved himself back up into a sitting position, the collar falling from his pocket and clanking against the cold concrete floor. Clint’s eyes turned to look at it, narrowing slightly at the object like it was somehow going to attack him before looking back up at Coulson. The agent lofted an eyebrow as he picked it up and moved to wrap it around Clint’s neck securely.

“C’mon Hawk. Can’t have you running around the city naked.”

Coulson astutely ignored the ‘Fuck you very much, _Sir!_ ’ glare.

Logan stepped forward, her hand outstretched as she crouched low enough to be more on the little Corgi’s level. The smile from before was still on her face as she wiggled her fingers out for Clint.

“Hey little guy,” Her eyes turned back to Phil’s and her head tilted questioningly. “What’s his name?”

“Hawkeye.” Coulson didn’t even skip a beat, the code name rolling off his tongue with practiced ease.

“Like Iowa Hawkeyes? The team?”

“Like ‘M*A*S*H’ Hawkeye. Named after Hawkeye Pierce. Stubborn, insubordinate, a trouble maker, doesn’t like to obey orders,” His arms folded over his chest as he turned his gaze back to where Clint had reluctantly moved to so the two women could pet and scritch behind his ears. “But loyal to a fault and all around good guy.”

No, that hadn’t been how Clint had come to have the nickname, but he couldn’t very well tell them the real reason, could he?

“I bet you’re ready to go home, now, huh Hawkeye? We’re glad your daddy was finally able to find you too.”

Coulson nearly choked on his own tongue at those words. Oh hell no. His surprised and slightly horrified grey eyes darted down to meet blue-greens and he could easily see the shit-eating smirk lurking behind them. He was never going to hear the end of this. Ever. Maybe he could knock the girls out and leave. Pretend he’d never been there and just leave Barton to find his own way home. Or to be picked up again?

A throat clearing cough next to him brought him out of his thoughts and he couldn’t help but flush just a bit. It wasn’t often people caught him lost in thought and had to repeat themselves for him. It was just one more embarrassment to add to the list of things he was sure Clint would harass him about once he was back to normal.

“You know Mr. Barton,”

_Fuck._ Maybe he’d just better go throw himself down the next subway entrance he found. Of even the third rail. He’d have better luck dying if he tossed himself onto the third rail, right?

“You should really consider having Hawkeye neutered. We’re not allowed to do it ourselves until after the three day reclaim period, otherwise we would have taken care of it already, but…you should really have it taken care of. Hawkeye’s a cute little guy but, not so sure you want it on your conscious of him fathering a bunch of adorable part-Corgi puppies somewhere. The city’s abandoned and stray animals population is already too high as it is. We all need to do our part to keep it down and get the ones already in shelters and in danger into good, loving homes before we can think about allowing anymore to enter the world.”

Coulson stared at Nicole for a moment, maybe a moment too long in serious consideration. The woman did have a point; the stray and abandoned population was depressingly high. A smug and possibly even slightly sadistic smirk crossed his features as he turned to look back down at Clint. Murder was written all over the little dog’s face. A deadly promise that Clint could and would kill the man, slowly and painfully, if he allowed the women to come even remotely close to his family jewels.

“Thank you,” He started, his eyes still engaged in a calculating stare down with ‘his’ dog. Blinking once, he looked away first (don’t read too much into it. He just didn’t want the women to start wondering why he was glaring down his dog). “That won’t be necessary. I already have him scheduled for an appointment with my vet.”

They didn’t need to know it was a lie. Of course, if Clint wasn’t careful, he felt confident the doctors on the helicarrier could easily perform a simple procedure. Clearing his throat, Coulson heaved a heavy, exhausted sigh. He was so glad the day was finally over. Well, mostly over. He was still going to have to get Clint the countless number of blocks back to Avengers Tower. And from there, the next few miles back to his apartment in Chelsea.

Logan gave a small pout as she moved to stand back up, her hands tucking into her pockets as she turned her attention from Clint to Coulson.

“Darn. We’ll just have to find some other excuse for you to bring him back in then. He kind of won over the hearts of all the women working here. Definitely a little heartbreaker.”

If it were possible for Clint to stand a little taller and for his chest to puff out smugly, he did it. The shit-eating smirk returned to his eyes as he moved to smoothly (or as smoothly as short little legs could allow for) glide up next to Coulson. His shoulder pressed into the man’s leg and he looked up at the agent arrogantly.

His own eyes looking down at Clint’s, Phil frowned and sighed.

“Yeah. That doesn’t surprise me at all.” Barton had been breaking hearts left and right his whole life. Why should it be any different now? Reaching down, Phil scooped Clint up and held him close. He didn’t have a leash to attach to the collar, so he was going to have to carry the dog, at least until he got them back to the Tower.

“Thank you very much, ladies, for all your help. And for taking such good care of Hawkeye for me.” The hand not supporting Barton’s wiggling body came down to land heavily over those glaring blue eyes, pressing his large ears back slightly and causing him to squirm all the harder.

The women both nodded happily as they motioned for Coulson to follow them back up to the front of the shelter to fill out the proper paperwork and pay for the stay. He could feel Clint go still in his arms, tensing almost painfully as they walked back through the obnoxiously loud adoption and viewing areas. The noise was a bit overwhelming, but Phil couldn’t help but wonder if the reason Clint froze up was because he knew how close he’d come to being put in one of those viewing kennels with a name that wasn’t his written on a placard and taped to the window so visitors had something to call him.

He tried to play it off as simply readjusting Clint in his arms to get a better hold on him, but Coulson’s arms tightened just a bit more than acceptable. A comforting and maybe even protective level of strength applied as they stepped back into the lobby. Stooping down, he carefully set Clint back on the ground, surprised a bit when the dog moved to sit directly on one of his beat up old sneakers and just tilted his head back to stare up at him. There was pure exhaustion evident in those eyes, one that Phil was fairly certain was mirrored in his own eyes.

It didn’t take him long to sign the forms and pull enough cash from his wallet to cover the bill he was given. Giving Nicole and Logan both a very appreciative smile and thank you again, Phil looked back down to where Clint was still sitting on his foot.

“C’mon Hawk,” His voice was that soft, gentle tone again, the one from earlier in the holding area, as he bent back down to pick him up once again. “Let’s get you home.”*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The entire cab ride back to the Tower, Clint spent sitting on the seat next to Coulson, his white paws on the door and snout pressed to the window. He felt six shades of humiliated and the last thing he wanted to do was sit _on_ his handler’s lap for the twenty-minute drive. It was bad enough the man had carried him and held him while waiting to finally catch a taxi. He just wanted to get back to the Tower, go find his floor and hide under a bed until Tony came up with some way to reverse what had been done to him.

When the doors to the elevator opened out onto the common area, and Coulson took a purposeful stride out into the room first, Clint suddenly retracted his previous thoughts. He didn’t want to be at the Tower at all! The burst of laughter (full out guffaw, more like it) that greeted them was enough to make him want to simultaneously bite Tony’s foot off and hide behind Coulson’s jean clad legs (which, okay, the casual clothes may have been another reason he hadn’t wanted to sit on the man’s lap in the cab. There was only so much torture a guy could handle and that would have broken him, no doubt).

“Oh, oh this is…this…JARVIS! Tell me you’re recording this. This is just…I knew! I knew you were a dog. I knew what _kind_ of dog you were. I prepared myself but this…this is just…I just…”

Clint’s fur actually bristled, his muscles tightened threateningly as his newly acquired sharp teeth flashed into view. Did he mention they were kind of sharp and shiny and pointed? Perfect for tearing into soft fleshy areas or ripping apart designer slacks that cost probably more than his first apartment in New York had. Tony being Tony though, just thought it was all the more hysterical and had to actually excuse himself from the room.

Bruce gave an apologetic smile and shoulder shrug as he stepped forward, hands fidgeting nervously in front of him.

“Tony’d said you’d found him. I uh…admit I wasn’t quite as prepared as he claims he was. Uh…this is…definitely interesting.” Clint watched as Bruce squatted in front of him and reached out to gently, hesitantly touch the tip of an oversized ear. He tried not to flinch away, and finally, reluctantly, stepped closer so Bruce could get a better look. At least Banner was used to dealing with skittish animals and knew to use slow, calm motions. Clint figured the man had plenty of practice, what with needing to remain calm and Hulk being much like a skittish animal too.

“Stark is an infant. What have you found out about the weapon that did this?” Coulson’s voice was back to the flat, level tone it always was when dealing with the Avengers. Jesus fuck, how was it possible to be dressed like some average Joe coming home from a parking lot basketball game and still sound and look so commanding and in control?

“Well,” Bruce scratched behind Clint’s left ear once before he pushed himself slowly back into a standing position and took his glasses off to fiddle with. “We found out that the gun shouldn’t have even worked to begin with. The kid had the right idea, but the mechanics didn’t make sense. Tony’s been going crazy trying to figure out how the guy actually got it to work. He called it a ‘glorified marshmallow shooter’.”

There was a quirk to Banner’s lips that told them he was far more amused with his colleague’s choice of words than he was letting on.

“We’ve been trying to reverse engineer it, but it’s such a mess that…” The physicist trailed off, his hunched shoulders shrugging gently as he looked to his feet.

Clint was too busy watching Banner and trying to wrap his head around what was just said (what kind of black magic was it that two of the world’s greatest scientists and self-proclaimed geniuses couldn’t figure out one loser kid’s ray gun?! …better yet, what had his life become that he’s not the least bit concerned by the fact there actually _are_ ray guns?) that he hadn’t even realized Coulson had moved further into the room. His cell phone was in his hand, fingers flying over the screen for a moment before he tucked it back into his pocket.

“We’ll arrange for you to speak with Pavlov; see if he can shed some light on how he was able to make it work.”

The quirk and twitch was back to Bruce’s lips, this time a spark twinkling in his dark brown eyes as he lifted his head and looked between Clint and Coulson. When the soft chuckle escaped his mouth, his hand coming up to cover his lips carefully, Clint tilted his head and took one cautious but questioning step forward.

“Something funny, Doctor?”

“It uh…actually, a little bit, yeah.” Bruce’s smile grew to a soft, shy grin. “The kid’s name; Derek Pavlov.”

At two blank stares, Bruce continued.

“Well, more his last name, Pavlov, actually. Ivan Pavlov was a Russian scientist. He’s credited for coming up with some pretty fascinating theories, actually, but his most famous one is conditioned reflex. Also called,” His dark eyes landed for a moment on Clint, and his smile grew just a little bit bigger. “ ‘Pavlov’s Dog’”

Clint wasn’t sure if it was possible for dogs to roll their eyes, but he gave it a try anyways as he spun his body away from the two men. A groan escaped from his mouth as he turned his back to them both and started off towards the couch. He did _not_ want to hear about some guy and his dog. Bruce, on the other hand, felt it was his duty to expand on what he’d been getting at.

“Pavlov and his assistant were able to train dogs to drool on command using just a bell. The dogs came to associate the sound of the bell with being fed and would automatically start to salivate. It’s actually a great psychological theory. Pavlov’s conditioning has been credited to be a huge part of how humans perceive themselves and their behavior and learning processes.”

“Which explains why Bird-Dog here is suddenly overly attentive any time you walk in the room, Agent.” Tony’s amused and slightly mocking voice was back, filling the room just a moment before he reappeared from around a corner. His eyes landed to where Clint was flopped over the arm of the couch, snout resting on his paws and eyes staring at the three men.

“If you shed on my sofa, Barton? I’m having Dummy and Butterfingers hold you down while U shaves off all your fur.”

“Stark—“

“Ya know, the irony here isn’t lost on me. This Pavlov kid creating a gun that turns people, or person rather, into a dog. Barton _literally_ has become Pavlov’s dog. Figuratively he already was and probably has been for years. But this—“

“Tony,” Bruce’s voice cut through the engineer’s little amused rant. The slight shake of his head was even enough to get the other man to quiet down.

Clint felt his eyes fall shut as the three men continued to talk. Coulson sounded far less amused than Tony and Bruce was doing his best to keep the eccentric engineer from pissing the agent off enough to be tased (though, the chances of Coulson having his taser on him at the moment were pretty damn slim). The sounds of their voices provided a lulling noise in his head, a comforting sound after spending three days listening to all sorts of animals crying out twenty-four hours a day. As if the whole experience wasn’t going to be enough for him to need more therapy, the sounds of that shelter definitely wasn’t going to help things any.

“Barton. Let’s go.”

Suddenly wide awake and on his feet, he hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. Or that enough time had passed by that the lights of the tower had come on and the night sky was pitch black. Damn, how could dogs fall asleep so completely so quickly?

Without even giving a questioning twitch of his brows (which, he found out he could do. He could feel them moving and by God he was going to use that to his advantage!), he tumbled down off the couch and moved to follow Coulson back to the elevator. He’d missed the whole conversation the man apparently had with Stark regarding where Barton would be staying. Hell, he figured Coulson would dump him off at his floor and be done with it. The snickering from behind him distracted him for a moment as he followed Phil.

“See? Pavlov’s dog. Coulson says three words and Barton’s on his heels in an instant. No questions asked. No hesitation. No—“

“Tony, let it go. We’ve got work to do.”

The polished brass doors slid silently closed just centimeters from the tip of Clint’s nose, causing him to stumble backwards and land with his butt once again resting on Coulson’s foot. Looking up at the man, he felt his embarrassment rise once more before he moved to stand next to the agent. He was too busy trying to resist the urge to sniff around and explore all the strange, overpowering smells that filled the Avengers private elevator, that he missed the fact they’d traveled past his floor and were being deposited back out into the lobby.

Without even thinking about it, he found himself following Coulson once again out of the elevator and into the grand entranceway. The crowds had thinned some, making it easier for him to trot alongside the agent’s stride and not get cut off or stepped on. The disadvantages of being a foot tall. He hated it. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Clint began to seriously question whether Coulson even realized he was still right there with him. He wondered if maybe the man had forgotten he hadn’t dropped Clint off at his floor and was going to leave him standing there on the sidewalk to try and get back into the Tower on his own. Even with leaning into Coulson’s leg, and standing on his foot, the man didn’t acknowledge him.

It wasn’t until a cab pulled up next to them and Phil opened the door, that he knew the man hadn’t forgotten.

“C’mon, Barton.”

Tail shamelessly wagging, Clint took a flying leap into the backseat and plopped his butt down as soon as the door closed. He felt ridiculous. Like an actual _dog_! He didn’t know where they were going but it didn’t even matter. He was getting to go for a ride and Coulson was with him.

“9th Ave and W. 21st Street.” Coulson instructed the driver as he settled back against the seat, head lulled back against the head rest and his eyes gently closing. Clint didn’t recognize the address, though he figured it was safe to assume it wasn’t another shelter.

Turning on the hard faux leather seat, he adjusted himself so that he could watch Coulson silently. The poor guy looked exhausted and yet still slightly tensed. He’d been on missions before where they’d taken turns sleeping so one could stand watch. Clint had always liked to watch his handler during those times. He’d lost count of all the night’s he’d sat in a window, alternating his gaze from the bed where Coulson slept to the world outside. There was always something about the way Phil slept that made Clint believe that the man didn’t actually _sleep_. He never seemed to be relaxed, no matter how tired he was. There was always a tightness to his shoulders that told Clint the man could be awake and ready for action in an instant.

He wanted to ask where they were going, but the longer they were in the cab, and the longer he watched the pale yellow-orange glow of the street lights above pass over his handler’s face, the less important that question seemed to become.

Clint wasn’t stupid enough to even try denying to himself that he’d been harboring maybe just the slightest bit of a crush on the man. If by ‘slightest bit of a crush’ that meant late night fantasies and long moments of watching him from the vent above his office. Then yeah, it was just a little crush. Was he going to admit that to anyone else though? Hell. Fucking. No. Stark had enough fodder to use against him, he wasn’t going to let this one slip too!

Around them the skyscrapers dwindled away, replaced instead with five or six story apartment complexes, the occasional fifteen or twenty story one thrown in here and there. Trees began to spring up along the streets and the general hubbub of the city quieted down to a distant memory. Shops and boutiques shone their store lights welcomingly as people milled about in the pleasant mid-May evening air. There was a much calmer sense to the air when the cab finally pulled to its final stop. Phil handed the driver a couple of bills without really looking at them, an action that told Clint the man had done this enough times to know how much the trip would cost him without being told.

He hopped from the backseat and moved to stand on the sidewalk, head turning every direction possible, trying to take everything in. There were apartments above shops, none of the buildings going much more than five stories up, all around him. Directly across the street from them was a little three story red brick building with a delicious smelling deli underneath. Clint really hoped that was where they were heading! His stomach twisted and churned hopefully. The dozen or so pieces of grilled chicken he’d been given for ‘breakfast’ had long since left his stomach and God he felt like he was starving!

When he suddenly found himself back in Coulson’s arms though, pressed securely against the man’s chest and moving away from the deli, he let out a yip of protest and whined pathetically as he squirmed in the man’s arms.

“I’m sorry, Barton, but there’s laws against not having a dog on a leash.” Phil muttered, clearly mistaking the squirming for protest over being held.

Clint whined again, his body twisting around so he could watch the deli get further away as they crossed the street and moved for a larger building. Black awnings hung over the shop windows, sleek and contemporary against the white of the limestone structure. White metal fire escapes decorated the front, adding an almost nostalgic feel to the picture. Clint strained his neck trying to see where they were going and nearly yelped when they started to approach the shop on the corner. _Chic’ Clique_ definitely did not sound like a place he wanted to go. Hell it sounded like it was someplace tween girls would populate!

Coulson’s grip seemed to tighten just a bit on him as they drew up short of the shop and turned, instead, to a plain black door with gold numbers above it. He couldn’t read the numbers, not from the angle he was at, but the fact Coulson produced a key to unlock the door was enough to tell him it was the entrance door for the apartments above. The stairway was a bit narrow but not enough to cause any unexpected bouts of claustrophobia, and the lighting was just bright enough that they could see where they were going and no one could lurk in the shadows.

It wasn’t until they reached the second landing that Coulson finally put Clint down and allowed him to walk on his own. He followed on the man’s heels as he stepped up on a door and again produced a key that would open it. No fancy, hidden security measures, no bio-tech-checker in the knob. Just a simple, unassuming sand colored door to match the other one across the hall.

_That is so fitting for him; it’s just not even funny…_ Clint thought almost sadly as Phil opened the door and motioned for the Corgi to go inside. He hesitated for a moment, unsure about what would happen if he did. He’d never been to Coulson’s apartment before, hadn’t even known where the damn place was, honestly, and the fact that the agent was now opening it up for him was kind of scary. He could have easily have been left at the Tower, yet…

“I’m not going to stand here all night, Barton. I’m tired. I’d like to go to sleep at some point, if it’s all the same to you.”

Clint jumped at the voice and he scurried to duck into the dark room. The light from the street lights drifted in through the windows, casting eerie shadows around before Coulson flipped a switch and chased them all away. He heard the lock click behind him a moment before the agent breezed past him and moved further into the spacious apartment. It was pleasant and airy, and had nothing more than a couple of mahogany pillars that separated the living room from the small dining room. A wall did keep the kitchen out of sight for the most part, even with its wide archway.

Clint slowly made his way around, taking in the sights. It wasn’t exactly what he’d imagined it’d look like. There was a stack of mail tossed carelessly across the top of an end table, and a coffee mug was still resting on the coffee table in front of the couch. It wasn’t all sharp corners and crisp, sleek contemporary style like Tony had often said it would be. It was soft, rounded and comfortable. It held a warmth in its walls that spoke volumes for the man that owned it (and Clint had no doubts that Coulson did in fact _own_ his little home. He just couldn’t image the man paying rent). There were a few scattered piles of discarded magazines or books here and there, shelves with a layer of dust over them that said the man hadn’t gotten around to cleaning them recently, and even a couple pairs of shoes just strewn around the place.

It was a bit untidy, but then, if it’d been anything but that Clint would have felt insanely uncomfortable. As it was he felt, well, he didn’t feel quite as much like an intruder.

Coulson reappeared by his side a moment later, his shoes discarded and jeans replaced with a pair of dark grey sweatpants. When that had happened and how he’d missed it, Clint didn’t know, but damn was he cursing himself for not noticing before! He watched as Coulson padded softly across the polished hardwood floor, his socks slipping ever so slightly against the wax as he moved into the kitchen. Carefully following, he slipped silently into the bright room and watched as the agent moved to pull a small metal dish from a cupboard and set it in the sink. He flipped the faucet on and turned to take a plate down next. It was interesting to watch the man move about the kitchen. Clint almost felt like an explorer watching a dangerous animal in its natural habitat.

The water turned off a moment before the bowl found its way down to the floor. Clint eyed it for a moment before turning an unamused gaze up at Coulson. He could feel his brows lift and knew that his look had to show just how unfunny the situation was to him. He knew this because he saw the way Coulson’s mouth twitched at the corners, like he was forcing himself not to smile and laugh at the indignant look.

“When you can figure out how to hold a glass and drink from it normally without making a mess everywhere, you can have a glass of water. For now, deal with it.”

Clint huffed and plopped his butt down on the cold ceramic floor to pout. He didn’t want water anyways. He wanted a beer! Hell, he’d even settle for something carbonated or even coffee! His eyes settled to stare at the bowl like it had personally offended him. At least, until a plate appeared next to it. Chopped potatoes covered in some kind of gravy was suddenly in front of him and the smell of _real food_ was enough to lurch him forward and shove his face shamelessly into it. To hell with dignity! He was hungry!!

Coulson gave a soft huff that could have been maybe taken for a quiet chuckle, maybe. He leaned heavily on his elbow against the counter, lazily taking a few bites out of his ham sandwich. Clint wasn’t sure he wanted to risk a glance up at the man, afraid to see just how worn out and vulnerable he’d be. It’d been over a year since the Loki incident, but even so he knew how easy it was for Coulson to push himself through his own exhaustion, just to try and make things go back to how they used to be.

When half of a sandwich found its way onto his plate (torn in half again so it was a bit more manageable), Clint lifted his eyes and watched as Coulson just quietly turned and padded back across his apartment. He disappeared behind another light tan door (Clint had the feeling Coulson’s color scheme was browns and tans. At least, from what he’d seen so far anyways) only to reappear a moment later with a large, fluffy blanket in his arms.

Clint chewed his meal slowly, his eyes never lifting from where his handler was arranging the blanket down on one corner of the couch. There was something that tugged at Clint’s chest, twisting his heart and finally forcing him to look away. Of course Coulson wasn’t going to share the bed; he’d be stupid to even consider it. They’d never shared a bed (at least not together, at the same time) while on missions; why should this be any different?

He picked his last clump of sandwich up off the plate and turned to slowly carry it into the living room to investigate further.

“Food stays in the kitchen, Barton.” Coulson didn’t even look up from where he was doing his best to fluff the blanket up to a more acceptable level. Clint couldn’t help but stop dead in his tracks and raise a brow. Dropping to his haunches, he opened his mouth, letting the pieces of bread and meat fall to the floor in defiance. A laughing glint sparked to his eyes as he looked from Coulson, to the mug on the coffee table and back to Coulson.

_Really? Bullshit._ It seemed to say (no, not _seemed_. _DID_ say)

“That’s a drink. It doesn’t get crumbs all over. Finish that up before the grease and slobber gets all over the floor.”

Clint gave a low growl/grumble as he bent down to gobble up what was left of the sandwich, even going so far as to lap up the crumbs that might have been left behind. When he was finished, he looked up to find Coulson silently retreating back behind that damn door (a door that Clint had a total dislike for because it meant that the man’s bedroom must be located behind it and would be closing to keep him out of it shortly).

“Try not to scrape up the couch, Barton.” He called over his shoulder before closing the bedroom door behind him.

No “Goodnight, Barton”. No “Sleep well”, or “Pleasant dreams”, or tucking in. Not that Clint really _expected_ there to be but…well…he’d just spend three horrible days alone in a shelter. Some kind of comforting remark before shutting him out would have been nice.

Standing alone in the living room, Clint suddenly felt even lonelier than before. His sharp eyes glanced around the room for a moment before he quietly made his way to the bedroom door. He knew he couldn’t open it, at least not in the conventional way, but maybe…

He pressed his head to the door and mentally frowned when it refused to budge. Trying again, he gave a soft whine of protest. He waited a moment before he carefully scraped the pads of his paws against the wood. It wasn’t enough to cause any damage, but it should have been enough to get Coulson’s attention and open the door for him. He didn’t want to be alone. It was pathetic but, true.

“Barton. Stop it. Go to sleep.”

Coulson’s voice was firm, as if he were giving orders in the field, but slightly muffled –either by the door or a pillow, Clint didn’t know. He gave another soft whine, a bit more desperate this time. When he got nothing in return, he heaved a heavy sigh and trudged back to the couch. He’d appreciated the gesture, giving him permission to sleep on what was no doubt a sinfully comfortable couch, but from that angle and from his height, Clint wouldn’t be able to get a clear view of the door. There was a spot, under the dining room table, that he felt confident would give him a better view of his surroundings.

Taking hold of the blanket carefully in his teeth, he tugged and pulled until it fell to the floor and he was able to drag it under the table. It was embarrassing how little he could actually do without the use of opposable thumbs and he swore he was never going to take them for granted ever again. The blanket was a pain in the ass to get just how he wanted it. He’d never laugh at another dog that rutted and circled and pawed and circled at their blankets again for as long as he lived. It was a cruel way to learn sympathy and humility.

By the time he got it just the way he wanted it, Clint fell in a pathetic lump across the top of it. A clear sightline of both the front door and Coulson’s bedroom door. Nothing was going to get past him. He’d make sure of it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Warm light was pouring in through the windows by the time Clint finally opened his eyes and stood to stretch his legs. The apartment was quiet save for the sounds of the city outside. A back paw came up instinctually to scratch at his ear before he shook his head and crawled out from under the table.

Coulson’s bedroom door was still closed. Turning for the kitchen, Clint went in search of that damn metal bowl for a drink. He couldn’t deny that he was thirsty, no matter how hard he tried to tell himself he wasn’t. Taking a few laps from the bowl, his eyes turned to spot a couple pieces of toast and half a strip of bacon on his plate. Screw drinking! When had food magically appeared on his plate? He sniffed them cautiously for a moment before going in for the bacon.

_Oh Coulson, a man after my own heart._ He thought as he happily chewed the cold piece of meat and turned to start for the toast. It was then that a grey Post-It caught his attention.

_Barton,_

_Behave yourself. I’ll be back later._

Clint stared at the note for a good long while, trying to figure out when it had gotten there and when the hell Coulson could have snuck out without him noticing! Jesus, he’d better not ever meet a real guard dog, they’d laugh him under the nearest picnic table!  He was clearly even more pathetic than he’d thought! He didn’t even know what time it was or when Coulson left!

And if that weren’t bad enough?

Nature was starting to call in the worst way possible.

_I am not going to piss all over Coulson’s floors. I am **not** going to piss all over Coulson’s floors. I’m not. I’m not not not._ He whined as he wandered through the man’s apartment, the rest of his breakfast forgotten. There were far more pressing matters to take care off. Matters that were only starting to press harder and harder the longer he was awake.

There were no windows open anywhere (not that it mattered, they were on the third floor and he’d never make it up any fire escapes to use the roof), not even an old newspaper laid out anywhere. Clearly, Phil Coulson was _not_ even an amateur when it came to pet owning. He couldn’t even be considered a beginner or novice! He was plain ol’ fucking CLUELESS!! Maybe Clint _should_ just take care of his business all over Coulson’s nice, clean floors. It’d teach him a lesson anyways!

Moving down the only hall, Clint poked his head into each room he came upon. One guest room that was nicely made up and pleasant enough looking --definitely not the place for Clint to use; another door that wouldn’t open and he just assumed to be a closet of some kind; and finally, blessedly, a guest bath. Complete with shower instead of tub, and curtain instead of door.

_Not the first time you’ve pissed in the shower, Barton. Won’t be the last._

Of course, that really didn’t help ease the bit of shame and guilt he felt over doing it. It was really Coulson’s own fault though! Never once had the man asked if Clint had needed to go for a walk around the block! At least the agent would never have to know what happened.

Slinking back out of the bathroom a moment later, Clint carefully crept back out to the kitchen, relieved to find that Coulson hadn’t returned home while he’d been taking care of things in the bathroom. He finished his last piece of cold, dry toast and dejectedly shuffled back to his blanket under the table. Two of his needs had been met and now that his stomach was full and his bladder empty, he made himself comfortable once more to wait for his handler to get home.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“ _Gooooooooood_ afternoon, Barton!”

Clint’s whole body jerked at the new voice that appeared out of nowhere. Jesus _fuck_! He _really_ needed to stop falling asleep! Or at least falling asleep so hard.

From his place under the table, he watched as a pair of flare jeans and bright pink Chuck Taylors went walking by. Unless Coulson randomly turned into a teenage girl during the day and Clint was totally and utter _blind_ to that fact, there was definitely someone new and different wandering around the man’s home. And whoever this new someone was, she seemed to know who he was and that he was there somewhere.

He watched silently as the girl moved for the other side of the dining room table and popped the lid to _something_.

“Did’ja’s miss me? Oh I bet’cha’s did. Yes. Here ya’s go. Lunch time. Hey! Natasha! Be nice! That was Barton’s piece!”

Confusion so powerful it practically had him stumbling over his own feet coursed through him. Who was this girl and who the _absolute fuck_ was she talking to?! The jangling of his tags gave him away before he could make his move and pounce at her. The sound startled whoever she was enough for her to stumble and drop whatever she’d been holding. Container falling and scattering across the floor, in turn, scared the living bejebus out of Clint and sent him flying into the defense (hey! The world is a lot scarier when you’re suddenly small enough to be squished like a bug, okay?!).

A pathetic growl rumbled through him as he crouched low and glared up at the girl.

“Who are you!? What are you doing in Coulson’s apartment? What do you want?” He demanded, even if it did come out as a series of pretty vicious sounding barks and growls.

“Oh God. Oh God…please…n-nice doggy. Nice…p-please don’t…”

Clint’s nose twitched thoughtfully. Something smelled fishy. Seriously. Something smelled like fish. Or really crappy fish food more like it. Turning his attention away from her for a moment, he spotted the container that’d fallen, its contents scattered across the floor.

Fish food.

_Fish food?!_ Since when did Coulson have _FISH?!_ And more importantly, why were they named ‘Barton’ and ‘Natasha’? It was pretty sad to think about and yet…maybe a bit endearing too. After all, it proved the man cared enough about him and Natasha to name his pets after them. Of course, on the other hand, they were _fish_ …and fish were known to not exactly have the best track record when it came to survival…at least if the goldfish he’d had in the past had been any sort of indicator on the matter.

“N-nice doggy. G-Good doggy. It’s okay…it’s okay. Right, it’s okay Hailey, it’s okay…not all dogs are mean and vicious and wanting to tear you to shreds. R-right little guy? Y-you’re not going to…I mean I’m not…”

Clint’s head whipped back around as a hand suddenly came back into his line of sight. He could literally smell the fear and panic rolling off the girl. Suddenly, he felt really pretty bad for scaring her. Maybe he could blame it on the fact she’d scared him first? Yeah, that sounded good.

Lowering his head, he felt his fur flatten down as he moved to lie down on the floor. He tried to make himself as non-threatening as possible. He looked up at her from under his lashes, legs moving slowly to creep him closer to her hand. When he was close enough to let her fingers brush the tips of his ears, he lifted his head to give her a calculating look. She didn’t _look_ threatening and she didn’t _smell_ threatening.

“Good doggy…I’m not gonna hurt you…I just came by to feed Mr. Coulson’s fish for him…”

Turning his snout, Clint’s tongue struck out to lick against her palm. Someone came to take care of Coulson’s fish for him? Wow…that really kind of makes sense given what Clint’s gathered of the man’s pet skills.

When the girl gave a slightly more relaxed laugh at his wet kiss to her hand, Clint moved to stand up and come closer to her. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Phil arrived home a half hour later, he opened his door to the sounds of… _giggling_? That was definitely giggling…and barking. He’d forgotten to tell Hailey –his neighbor’s daughter—that he was home and she wouldn’t need to come over and collect his mail or feed the fish for him anymore.

With a sigh, he closed the door behind him and hung his keys on the hook. A plastic bag from the local pet shop was in one hand, and his suit jacket was swung over his other arm. He’d left that morning with the intentions of going into work to gather a few papers, tie up some loose ends, and put in for some of that vacation time he kept getting bitched at by HR for having so much of stored up. No one was sure how long it would take for Barton to return to normal, if he ever did, but Coulson still had wanted to take at least a week off anyway.

Glancing into his living room, he froze for a moment at the sight in front of him. Hailey was on the floor, her face red with laughter as Clint pounced at her playfully, leapt over her stomach and crawled all over her. It would be innocent enough if Clint was a real dog, but he wasn’t, and Hailey was the only one to not know that. This was all kinds of wrong.

“Hawkeye. _Off._ ”

Clint skidded to a halt –or at least attempted to. His paws slid across the smooth floor and legs went out from under him in his struggle to stop. Blue-green eyes darted up past the couch, staring at Coulson in surprise and then in aggravation. He was still a bit bent out of shape about not being let out earlier. Head lifted and chest puffed just a bit, Clint moved to flop himself across Hailey’s lap and ignore Coulson.

Hailey’s eyes lifted with brightness as she moved to pull the dog into a tight hug, his head pressed against her chest and Phil could almost _see_ the smug smirk on Clint’s face. Oh was he in for it once the girl went home again.

“Hi, Mr. Coulson! I came by to feed Bart and Nat and this little guy sprung out at me.” Her voice was light and melodic as she kissed the top of Clint’s head and let him back down onto the floor. She pushed herself up to her feet, straightening her dark pink baby-T as she went.

“He’s really cute! I didn’t know you’d gotten a dog.”

Coulson’s eyes fell back down to where Clint was watching him intensely from Hailey’s side. He shook his head and moved further into his home, dropping the bag and his jacket onto the couch before he turned his attention back to the pair.

“I didn’t. He’s not mine.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you were _dogsitting_ then. Doesn’t change the fact he’s really cute and such a sweetheart!”

He could almost see Clint preening at the praise, his head rising just a bit higher. He forced himself to resist rolling his eyes at the dog. Instead, he leaned forward to dig around the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pull a thin folded checkbook out. Using the back of the couch as a table, he quickly scribbled across the piece of paper before tearing it out and holding it out to Hailey.

“If you say so. Thank you for taking care of the fish while I was gone. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was home sooner.”

Hailey’s smile never faltered as she reached out to take the check from him. Her shoulders lifted in a carefree shrug before stuffing the paper into her pocket and moving for the door. Clint was sad to see she was leaving. He’d actually kind of grown to like her. His paws moved across the floor to follow her, tail swishing faintly.

“It’s no big. I’ll see ya later, Mr. Coulson.” She flashed a blinding smile as she leaned down to pet behind Clint’s ears and murmured a goodbye to him before straightening and slipping out the door. Clint watched the door click closed before he turned his attention back to Coulson and let his eyes light up happily. If he were any more pathetic he’d let his tongue hang out and tail go nuts over Phil being home, but no…he wasn’t that pathetic, and plus…the bathroom incident? Yeah, still not forgiven for that.

Though, it didn’t matter because the look he was getting from the man was not one that he was overly fond of. It was one he was given after a mission when he would make his own calls and ultimately risked his life because, well, his calls weren’t always the smartest ones in the book. It was a look that was a cross between anger and disappointment, and it froze him where he stood every time.

“I don’t know what you thought you were doing, Barton,” Coulson’s voice was cold but level, the no-nonsense tone he gives when the Specialist has done something overly stupid that time. “But do not go near Hailey again. Especially not like you were. She’s only _just_ eighteen. She doesn’t need you climbing and putting your paws all over her.”

Clint couldn’t believe what he was hearing. There was no way it was possible. Coulson was actually accusing him of, what? Putting the moves on a teenage girl? Trying to use his position as cute, adorable, sweet little puppy dog to cop a feel? Oh, the agent was lucky that he couldn’t talk. So very lucky.

 He could, however, hunch down and growl.

Lips curled back to bare teeth and hair standing on end, Clint narrowed his eyes at Coulson, but made no attempt to charge at him. He just wanted to make it known that he could still understand every word spoken to him and he in no way appreciated those accusations. For cryin’ out loud, the girl was still a kid in his mind! Plus, on top of that, yeah, boobs were soft and squishy and made nice pillows…but they were _so_ not what he was interested in.

The pair stood in the middle of the living room, Clint snarling and glaring Coulson down, while Phil folded his arms calmly over his chest. Only, he wasn’t as calm as he looked. With the wonderful heightened sense of smell, Clint was able to pick up on something that distinctly smelled of apprehension. Coulson was actually a little bit afraid of Clint at the moment.

Clint was the first to break the stare this time.

His shoulders lifted and his fur fell back down into place as he turned his head away and down from Coulson’s gaze. Without so much as a glance back up at the man, he moved past him to crawl back under the table and lay back down on the blanket, his back to the rooms. He listened as Coulson rustled around in the bag for a moment before things fell silent again.

God, he’d never wanted to go throw himself across Natasha – _his_ Natasha, not that fish that’s supposedly swimming around somewhere out of his sight—he’d never wanted to throw himself across her bed and vent so bad in his life.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Clint didn’t see Coulson again that night. Or maybe, Coulson was the one avoiding Clint? It didn’t matter. The point was they didn’t see each other at all. There was food laid out for him at some point, the Post-It from before having been picked up and discarded, and when he had to take care of business again? Well, he slunk himself down the hall to the guest bathroom and took full advantage of that shower again. He wasn’t proud about it, but hey! The agent seemed to have forgotten that Clint was in fact a dog and couldn’t exactly stand up straight enough for target practice. The toilet was kind of out of the question.

The following morning, before the sun could warm the apartment, the sound of a chair sliding out from under the table and a pair of shoes falling to the floor nearby startled him out of his sleep. It’d been done on purpose, Clint was sure of that, as he grumbled and stretched the sleep from his limbs. Coming out from his blanket bed, he blinked up at Coulson’s stern face (or, it could have been still half-asleep…it was a well kept secret that Agent Phillip J. Coulson was _not_ a morning person) and gave another pathetic groan.

The man was dressed in a pair of dark basketball shorts (Jesus! Really!? What the absolute fuck!? Clint didn’t even think the man _owned_ any shorts!) and a heather grey, threadbare sweatshirt. Oh that sweatshirt, Clint knew it anywhere! He’d been trying for months to steal it from Coulson! Every time he’d make a play to steal it from the man’s locker at SHIELD or out of his gym bag or wherever he’d last seen it, it’d been gone. There wasn’t even anything special about the damn thing! It was just a plain old sweatshirt. That Coulson just happened to wear every time he worked out. And it looked incredibly comfortable and well loved. Might even be soft from all the times it’d been washed. One day. One day Clint would get his paws (maybe even literal paws) on that sweatshirt.

He watched as Coulson pulled his sneakers on, tightened the laces and moved to stand again. Clint fell back onto his rear and stared up at Phil sleepily. It was too early to be up and functioning. And of course, since he was still in a canine body, all forms of caffeine had been taken away from him. Mornings fucking _sucked_ without a coffee.

Clint turned, expecting Phil to start for the kitchen to make breakfast, not move for the front door. The man wasn’t even going to say _where_ he was going? He’d planned to just _leave_? Clint shook his head as he took off after him. His teeth dug into the back of one of Coulson’s sneakers and he hung on for dear life. There was no way that man was leaving without him again!

“Barton! What the—Let go of my shoe, Agent. That’s an order.”

He growled as he glared up at Coulson and continued to clench his jaw down on the leather and fabric of the sneaker. When the agent finally stopped moving and just folded his arms over his sweatshirt covered chest, Clint let go and sat back to glare back at him.

“I’m going for a jog.”

Clint continued to glare.

“I’ll be back in an hour.

Blue-green eyes narrowed and his snout wrinkled in a slight snarl. He was just about to show teeth and dig into the shoe again when the lights finally turned on in Coulson’s eyes. Clint watched as the other man’s eyes widened to almost comical proportions before he whipped his head around in every direction. He was no doubt trying to figure out where Clint had been taking care of things and he had to admit, it was a bit satisfying not being able to answer and just leaving the poor guy to wonder. Maybe someday he’d tell him. _Maybe_.

Raising both his dark tan eyebrows, he gave a sharp nod of the head before standing and going to wait by the door. He was possibly a little surprised when Coulson moved for the bag on the couch and returned a moment later with a very nice, probably pretty expensive, purple and black braided leash; the loop padded with a soft leather. There were so many things going through Clint’s mind, none of them appropriate, when Coulson crouched in front of him and snapped the clip onto his collar.

Swallowing hard, Clint turned his attention back up to his handler’s face. Right. Leash laws. Of course Coulson went out to buy a leash for him. It wasn’t anything at all. He gave a quick full-body shake before he turned to stare up at the door knob. He was quite ready to go out for a run.

Coulson gave a small huff before he opened the door and let Clint lead them out of the building. Taking control again, the agent turned to go opposite of where the archer-turned-canine was wanting to go (yes, the deli was opening. Yes, it smelled delicious. No, they were not going to go investigate it) and gave a swift tug to the leash. It was all he needed to do to have Clint fall into line next to him, no matter how begrudgingly the dog acted about doing so.

The pair walked down the street for a few moments, Clint sniffing and snuffling at a few random spots as his little legs worked quickly to keep up with the agent’s strides. And when Coulson paused by a fire hydrant and motioned to it, Clint gave the best ‘You’ve gotta be shittin’ me’ glare he could muster before turning and yanking the leash, and Phil, into an alley. There was no way Clint was going to do what he needed to do right out in the open like that! He may look like a dog, walk like a dog and bark like a dog, but that sure as hell didn’t actually _make him_ a dog!

He ducked behind a dumpster, one that already smelled of old urine and other bodily functions and returned a minute or so later feeling both better and incredibly embarrassed at once. Coulson lifted an eyebrow at him, but Clint refused to meet his gaze as he slunk back out onto the sidewalk.

“I’m going to have to carry plastic bags when I take you for walks, aren’t I?”

Even though Clint heard the light, teasing tone, it still embarrassed him to no end. God was he glad dogs couldn’t blush! He was positive he’d be red from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Sure Coulson was no stranger to cleaning up Barton’s messes…but those were entirely different messes. These were…actually, Clint really just didn’t want to think about that. At all.

Head turning up to finally look at Coulson, he allowed his mouth to open just enough for the tip of his tongue to drop out and a spark to take in his eyes. It was a challenging look. If Coulson wanted to go for a run, then that was just fine by him. With a single warning bark, a _Catch me if you can, Boss_ look, Clint tore off down the sidewalk like a bat straight out of hell. He yanked the leash free from Coulson’s slacked hand and paused only once at the end of the block to glance and make sure the man was in fact following him.

Oh yeah, Clint was in trouble. And for more reasons than just because he took off.


	2. Chapter 2

After that run (which took the pair down more city blocks than Clint ever thought possible and through a really nice, quiet park that he’d have to convince Coulson to take him for an actual proper walk around one day) things actually seemed to get better. True, Clint still wasn’t happy that he was a dog, and Phil still thought Clint had been trying to feel Hailey up (though, thankfully that discussion –or lack thereof—had never been brought up again), but things were actually kind of good…nice even. It was as if they’d somehow managed to come to some kind of understanding or unspoken truce during the course of that run. They even fell into an almost frighteningly easy routine after that:

·        Coulson would wake up, change into his shorts, sweatshirt, and sneakers and take Clint out for his morning walk/jog (Clint behaved himself now and kept pace with the older agent).

·        They would come home and Phil would fix them breakfast; usually scrambled eggs with toast and bacon, but occasionally he’d whip up a batch or two of waffles to share (complete with a small amount of butter and syrup for Clint)

·        From there Phil would settle himself on the couch and start pouring over reports that still needed correcting or to be entered into his personal records while Barton pulled himself onto the other side of the couch to curl up and watch the man work…which would ultimately turn into sleeping instead of watching

·        Around 2:30 Coulson would set his files and folders down on the coffee table, grab up the leash and take Clint out for another walk (that usually ended in the pair meandering down the shaded, quiet streets, peeking into windows and stopping off for hot dogs from street vendors for lunch)

·        Returning to the apartment, Clint would hop back up onto the sofa and lean across the back to watch as Phil took care to feed his fish (apparently the all dark-grey one –which Coulson assured him was actually a red-orange color—was a Red Oranda named Natasha, and the one that was white and had just this little cluster of dark-grey—again, actually a red-orange color—just above its eyes and at the base of its tail was a Red and White Oranda named Barton. And _boy_ did he want to ask about those names!)

·        Phil would make a few phone calls to SHIELD HQ shortly after taking care of the fish, followed by a few more calls to Avengers Tower to check on the progress –if any—on figuring that damn ray gun out. Clint could tell when Coulson was talking to Stark, or rather, pretending to listen anyways. The man would get a glazed and distant look in his gorgeous grey eyes, a furrow creased across his brow and he’d usually start flipping silently through a book or magazine. It was actually pretty funny to watch.

·        Then there’d be a bit more paperwork and file reading while Clint dozed peacefully on the couch once more.

·        Dinner was usually started about 6pm and Barton was more than happy to “help” in the kitchen any way he could. In a way, he felt kind of like Lassie, except way cooler. He would take hold of towels looped through the cabinet handles and pull until the door opened and he was able to pull whatever Coulson had asked for out (and a lot of the times, everything around the item came out with it and Phil would have dishes scattered all over the kitchen floor).

·        After dinner was Clint’s favorite time. Not only did they go for one last walk around the block, but he was also able to finally sit close enough to Coulson on the couch to be touching. More often than not, he’d lay with his back or side pressed against the man’s thigh and hip, Phil with his hand resting gently somewhere on Clint’s body.There were a few times though, that he’d settled in and been allowed to lay across the man’s lap while they drifted aimlessly through channels until landing on something they could both agree on (turns out, crappy reality TV really was addictive and _Wife Swap_ was a frighteningly good show)

·        Eventually the TV would go dark and Phil would carefully set Clint back down on the floor, give a gentle scratch behind the ears and shuffle off for his bedroom. The door always clicked shut behind him and while it still drove a knife through Clint’s chest, he’d come to accept it and would just go to curl up on his blanket (though, there may or may not have been a few times where he’d laid in front of Coulson’s door the whole night just so he could be that much closer to him).

It was actually very nice having Coulson there with him every day; it helped to make the first week and a half of his transformation bearable. Plus, it was just nice to spend time with him. Clint knew that Phil had to be a different person once he was off the clock, there was no way the man could remain that calm all the time, so it was nice to be around to see when Coulson would yell something at the TV (“Oh come on, Ump! Are you blind? Even I could see he was out!” …turned out Coulson’s a pretty big Chicago Cubs fan. Clint was willing to forgive him that fault) or to hear him humming along with his CD while they fixed dinner and Coulson took care of the dishes (Clint had never really been much for the type of music his handler listened to, but hearing it played through the man’s quality home stereo system…and seeing the way it made him smile while he hummed and swayed along to it? Well, Clint was really starting to reconsider his opinion on it).

Coulson was actually a pretty fun guy to be around when he wasn’t busy being Agent Coulson. At home, with Clint there with him, he was plain Phil Coulson—middle aged bachelor who spent his days watching mind-numbing reality TV, going for jogs around the park, and cooking. He was relaxed, even…happy. Clint had often wondered how a guy who really didn’t seem to smile much or laugh could have such deep laugh lines and crow’s feet. Now he knew. Just because Phil didn’t really smile or laugh at work, or around Stark, didn’t mean it never happened. It just happened at home, where no one was the wiser.

Lying in the middle of Coulson’s dining room, basking in the warm late-May sun, Clint sighed contently. He missed his friends, Nat especially, and he really missed being able to shoot his bow, but all in all he was…content. For the first time in his life he felt like he had a home, like someone cared enough about him to even want to spend every waking moment of their day with him. The thought should have terrified him, should have had him running from the apartment when Phil opened the door, but it didn’t. In fact, he had started to come to the decision that being a dog wasn’t so bad, and if being a dog meant he got to stay with Phil and be the one to see him so open, so relaxed, and so happy then…well then he didn’t want to change back. Not unless he could get some guarantee that he could still have—whatever it was they had between them.

“Barton?”

Clint gave another soft sigh, his eyes still closed as the sun warmed his face and body. He thought he might have heard Coulson say his name, but then, he was pretty sure he was dreaming too.

“Clint?” A gentle hand stroked from the top of his head, down his back and over his side. Oh what he’d give to feel that hand against flesh…

Slowly, he cracked his eyes open against the bright sunlight and moved to roll himself back up onto his feet. He’d been having such a good nap, too. There was a softness to Coulson’s face as the man crouched there next to him and just stared at him. It was kind of unnerving, but Clint shook it off as he lifted his head and quirked an eyebrow at him.

Phil was dressed in a suit again and Clint decided in that moment that he hated suits. With every fiber of his being. Suits meant work and work meant his handler would go from Phil to Agent Coulson again. Clint much preferred _Phil_.

“C’mon. We have to go to the Tower. Stark called, said he had something.”

Clint’s heart leapt and broke at the same time. If Stark had figured out how to turn Clint back into a human, then that meant his time with Phil was over. He didn’t _want_ it to be over! Coulson mistook Clint’s groan and grumble as not wanting to deal with Tony, and chuckled as he gently rubbed at a spot behind Clint’s ear.

“I know, trust me, I don’t want to deal with Stark either.” There was something soft in Coulson’s voice that made Clint tilt his head a bit. A tone that almost sounded…resigned? He sniffed the air a little and felt his brows crinkle together just slightly. There was almost a sad smell to the air. He tilted his head a little more, eyes concerned as he took a step forward and nudged his head against Phil’s hand.

 _Hey, I have no idea what’s wrong but…it’s okay. I’ll still be around. Right? We can still…I mean, if Stark manages to…I can stay here, with you…_ He wanted to say, and not for the first time, Clint really wished he was at least a talking dog.

Phil stared down at Clint for a long moment before his hand ruffled the top of Clint’s head and he shoved himself back onto his feet. There was no way for Phil to know what was going through Barton’s head, and it was probably for the best. Still, Clint wished he could communicate with the man better than he had been. Heaving a sigh, he followed to the door and waited patiently for the leash to get clipped to his collar. He still wasn’t going to let his brain think about all the different ways a leash could be used. No, that way lay madness and he just wasn’t going to do it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Clint stared at the lump of fabric on the table in front of him. There was no, fucking, way. NONE! He knew Stark could be a jackass, and his priorities were often out of whack but this? No, this wasn’t possible.

“C’mon Coulson! We’re trying to make him feel included! You’re keeping him all to yourself, which don’t think we haven’t noticed the two of you have been holed up in wherever it is you hole up at. We have. And frankly, I for one am starting to seriously question your relationship with—“

“You special ordered him a dog costume, Stark.”

“But it’s a HAWKEYE costume! Look! It even came with a fake quiver and sunglasses!”

Coulson’s glare was so murderous that even Clint was a little bit afraid. They’d gotten to the Tower assuming Tony had had a breakthrough with the ray gun, or had figured out how to turn Clint back to normal again. What they found instead, was a rather cheaply made dog size replica of Clint’s field uniform. And yes, it was complete with fake quiver and sunglasses (which, okay, the sunglasses he kind of approved of).

It was supposed to be Coulson’s last day off before he went back to work. They’d planned to spend the day wandering around Chelsea and then veg out on the couch. Not get conned into taking a trip to Midtown just so Tony could give them a fucking _dog costume_!

“Stark,” the agent’s voice was calm and level, but Clint saw the faint twitch to the man’s right eye. It was a signal that he was trying very hard not to tase the engineer. “I’m going to turn my back for a few minutes. And if Barton just happens to take a bite out of you in that time? I won’t reprimand him. I probably will nominate him for a field commendation.”

Tony laughed at that, until his dark eyes came back to look at Clint and saw the hair bristled and teeth glimmering in the harsh, artificial light. It was pretty satisfying to see the way Tony’s face paled and his laughter froze in his throat. Even more so when Stark coughed and turned away, clearly taking that threat seriously (even if Coulson did risk a wink in Clint’s direction once the scientist’s back was turned).

“Right, okay, fine. Last time I try to buy something nice for a friend. Here.” Tony turned to toss a black collar on the table with a _thud_ , followed closely by another object that Clint couldn’t really recognize.

Curious, Clint inched forward and sniffed at them both cautiously before nudging the unrecognizable object first.

“What’s all this?” Coulson picked the little unknown thing up and turned it over in his hands. Clint knew he could count on Phil to ask the questions he couldn’t.

Tony plucked it from Coulson’s hands and turned it over in his own, showing them the front where six decent sized buttons stared out at them, a name written above each button. _Tony. Bruce. Natasha. Steve. Coulson. Fury._

“This, my ungrateful cohorts, is a doggy cell phone. Perfectly sized for paws and each button is a direct link to the cell phone it’s listed for. Me, Bruce, Widow, Cap, you, and Freaky Fury. Just press the button and you’re automatically connected. Try it.” Tony set it down on the table in front of Clint again and folded his arms expectedly.

Blue-green eyes stared down at the contraption for a moment before he cautiously stuck a paw out and dropped it down carefully over the button marked _Coulson_.

The chorus of “Something to Talk About” floated from Phil’s pocket barely a second later.

Clint had never seen Coulson’s face turn that particular shade of red before. Nor had he ever seen him scramble so quickly to silence his phone and glare down at it like it had personally offended him. And…had that been--?

“Okay, if you tell me that’s your ringtone for Barton’s cell number? I’m going to have to tell you again that I’m seriously questioning your relationship with him.”

Clint’s heart actually stopped for a full 30 seconds as he blinked at Coulson. He’d never had reason to hear the man’s ringtone for him and honestly the fact that it was a Bonnie Raitt song (one that, if they were going to be completely truthful about…really kind of did sum them up. Or at least, _Clint_ thought so…) was kind of not what he was expecting it to be. Yet, for whatever reason, it sprang up a small fount of hope in his mind.

“It uses Barton’s usual number to call through.” The tone was quiet, and embarrassment was practically radiating off Coulson as the man kept his head down and eyes focused on his phone. His fingers were moving across the screen and the furrow had settled in between his brows again in a silent curse. “How exactly is he supposed to use this, Stark? He can’t talk.”

Tony took a moment to just stare at Coulson and smirk. It was a knowing smirk; one that beamed with ‘Caught you!’ and was obviously plotting something. Without taking his eyes away from the agent, Tony reached out and picked the collar up off the table.

“With this. Hawking has his little wheelchair voice-box-thingy. Hawk _eye_ has a collar voice-box-thingy. We actually got the idea from that stupid depressing Disney movie…the one that the first eight minutes are still a better love story than Twilight and has the kid and the dog that can talk? Yeah, well, stole the idea from them. Thinking of buying the rights, too, if this works. Which it will.” There was pride in the engineer’s voice as he reached out to undo the purple collar with tags (that Clint really liked, thank you very much) and replace it with the boring black one (not even any dark burgundy or anything. It was lame!)

“This little beauty, Bruce and I slaved over for the better part of three hours. It’s designed to, I don’t wanna say read Barton’s mind but…yeah, I guess that’s the best way to describe it. It picks up neuro-transmit-whatever-Bruce-called-them and relays them through this speaker.” Tony tapped the thin, little speaker, hidden well amongst the black of the nylon collar.

_Pft. Right. Like that’s actually going to work? Please. Besides Stark—_

“Pretty sure no one wants to know what I’m thinking right about now.”

“Actually, I’d be quite interested in knowing what you’re thinking, Barton.” There was that softness to Coulson’s voice again, the one that made Clint want to roll over and curl up in the man’s lap and never leave.

“Much as I’d love to tell ya…just not gonna happen, Si—“ Clint’s eyes bugged out of his head as he stumbled backwards in surprise. “IT WORKS!”

“ _SHIT!_ ”

“ _FUCK!_ ”

“ _G’DAMN IT, STARK! GET THIS THING OFF ME!!!”_ His eyes were frantically darting around the shop for an escape as he stumbled backwards across the table, feet slipping and sliding across the smooth metal surface. He tried to clear his mind, to not think anything he didn’t want anyone to know.

 _“JESUS FUCK! GET THIS FUCKING THING OFF ME! I SWEAR TO GOD STARK, I’M GOING TO PUT A FUCKING ARROW THROUGH YOUR EYE IF YOU DON’T_ —“

_GET THIS DAMN THING OFF MY NECK, RIGHT NO--…ow…_

Clint blinked in confusion as he suddenly found himself on his back, staring up at Coulson’s amused but concerned blue eyes. It took a minute to realize he’d slipped himself right off the edge of the workbench and into the agent’s strong, protective arms. And another minute more to figure out that Coulson had detached the collar. _Thank Fuck for small miracles_ …That collar had to violate some form of privacy laws or something. There was no way it could be legal to place a device on someone that could read their thoughts and broadcast them like that!

Slowly, carefully, Coulson set Clint back down on the table and reached to pick the purple collar back up. His fingers were sure and gentle as he attached it around Clint’s neck again, turning it so the tags were in front before running his hand softly down the dog’s back. Clint didn’t want to admit the gesture turned his stomach in knots and made it hard to swallow.

Turning his grey eyes back to meet Tony’s laughing browns, Coulson tucked the “psychic collar” into his pocket and shook his head.

“I appreciate your ingenuity, Stark. But it’s morally unethical and an invasion of privacy to create a device that will project people’s inner thoughts. I’ll have a team come in to collect the data you and Doctor Banner came up with while creating this. You could have inadvertently created a weapon today.” Coulson was not a stupid man, he knew exactly what he was talking about and knew exactly how to say it in order to make a point. Stating that Stark had just violated Clint’s privacy and made a potential weapon (cuz face it, in the wrong hands that collar and the technology in it _was_ a weapon) was all it took to knock the man down a few pegs and shut him up.

In a way, Clint kind of felt bad. He knew that Tony was just trying to help, and he appreciated that. Just, it was a potential risk hazard that Clint didn’t want to think about –with or without the collar on. With better footing than the last time, he moved carefully across the table until he could nudge Stark’s hand gently. He may not have been able to verbally communicate, but, he still found ways to get his point across.

When Tony turned his attention back to Clint, and saw the way his black nose was nudging the outfit and glasses closer, the spark returned to those dark eyes. Barton had already embarrassed himself enough as it was, what was a little more embarrassment? If it helped restore a little bit of the engineer’s damaged pride then he’d wear the silly dog costume.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Turned out, the costume wasn’t so bad after all. A little scratchy and awkward, but, not totally unbearable. And the sunglasses _were_ just as cool as they’d looked (even with the dorky, black elastic band that held them in place).

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They didn’t get to spend the day wandering around Chelsea, but they at least got their couch time in. And if Clint had refused to take the costume off until close to bedtime, then that was his choice. And if his mind kept wandering back to the collar that was still in Coulson’s jacket pocket, well…then no one needed to know about that.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Time went slower in Phil’s apartment without the man there. He knew Phil had only taken a week off, opting to spend his time with Clint so that he didn’t feel completely abandoned that first week, but now that he was nearly to the end of his second week in the one-foot-nothing category, it was time for Coulson to return to work and get back down to business. Clint had tried to protest this. He’d stolen one of Phil’s shoes and shoved it under the couch; thrown himself across the man’s jacket and rolled all over it in order to cover it in short white and gold hairs; he’d even stood at the door and growled when none of that seemed to slow the man down.

He lost in the end though. And it’d been a pathetic loss at that. All it had taken was a soft smile, a gentle promise that he’d be home ( _home…_ ) before Clint knew it, and a tender swipe of his hand down Clint’s head to have him stepping dumbly to the side and letting him pass. At least Phil had made breakfast for them (even if it was just a couple rushed pieces of toast and cut up bananas) and had taken him for a quick walk to the nearest alley (because face it, Clint _still_ wasn’t going to do his thing in public like that!).

The apartment seemed so much larger without Phil in it. Not really colder, just…larger. Lonelier. It was too quiet for Clint’s tastes; the only sounds coming from the streets outside and the gurgling fish tank in the dining room. He’d wandered through the apartment, nudging open the guest room door to do some investigating. It wasn’t anything spectacular and honestly looked like it’d never been used. That thought tore through Clint harder than it should have.

Coulson was a good guy. A _great guy_ if he were honest. He deserved to have people want to come over and spend time with him. Or have a guest over to actually use the room that was so well taken care of.

He shook his head sadly as he wandered back through the living room and, just because he’d checked all the other doors, nudged his nose against Phil’s bedroom door. Last time he’d tried that, it’d been shut and locked. This time the knob jumped just as it creaked open. The sound was unusually loud in the silent apartment and it actually filled Clint with a wave of apprehension. He’d seen his fair share of horror movies. Doors that creaked open like that, and that slowly, always spelled doom.

Still, he was an agent of SHIELD…even if his status was currently listed as “INACTIVE”. He was still an agent and he was brave…ish.

Nudging the door the rest of the way open, Clint slowly slunk into the mostly dark room. Light was coming in through the windows to the left and cast long, white rays across the floor. _Carpet_ , Clint noted as he slowly padded across it. It looked like it was a pale grey (though, whether it actually was or not, he didn’t know) and was soft under his paws. The room wasn’t anything fantastic, except that it totally was. It smelled completely of Phil and that alone was enough to suck the breath right out of his body.

Phil’s sneakers were laying one on its side, the other upright, next to a chair (the teeth marks from when Clint bit into them still visible on the right shoe). A low bookshelf took up most of the wall under the windows and was _filled_ with plastic sleeve-covered comic books, graphic novels and hardbound collections of every _Captain America_ comic released. There were other books in the shelves, softbound novels with the spines broken and split from ware, but it was clear that the comics made up the majority of the collection. On the smooth, flat surface above the books, were action figures (most of which were Cap, but then Clint had always known about Phil’s little hero-worship streak when it came to Steve) all clustered together, some of them even arranged to look like they were engaged in a battle. There were multiple Iron Man’s, a couple of Black Widow’s and Hulk’s, at least three of Thor, but only _one_ Hawkeye.

Clint stopped when he saw it. Hell, he’d known Tony had given the go ahead for Avengers action figures to be produced, he’d just never seen one of his own. There was a tiny part of him disappointed in the fact Coulson only had one of his, and more so at the fact it was at the very far end of the bookshelf, on the other side of a picture frame and pointing away from everyone else. He knew he could be kind of a loner and was always cut off from everyone else during battles but…

He looked away from that before his brain could dwell for too long. There were more important things to do besides wonder about why his figure was so far away from everyone else. Turning, he wandered around the foot end of Coulson’s bed, paused to sniff at the cuff of the man’s sweat pants before continuing on his way.

The room itself was mostly neat (a few pairs of jeans tossed across a chair, a T-shirt or two dropped on the floor in a rumpled pile by the closet door along with a few socks), but seemed almost sparse in a way. There was a white door along the right wall that was open enough for Clint to see it was Coulson’s private bathroom (and as much as Clint wanted to go snooping around in there, he behaved himself and walked away) with a pair of light grey sliding doors that were open to show off the man’s vast array of…black suits. Jesus the man had a bazillion different black suits hanging up in there. At least the dress shirts to go with them weren’t all just plain, boring white.

Clint shook his head at those and froze when his eyes landed on a basket in the corner. It was about the same height as him and had various parts of clothes hanging over the sides. One piece in particular sent Clint into a whirlwind of motion. He dove for the basket, his front legs caught the side and brought it tipping down to the floor. Shirts, socks, sweats and boxers (Clint was going to be _very_ good and ignore those at all costs!) spilled out onto the carpet and Clint gave a yelp of joy as he dug the one piece he’d been after out from under everything.

The heather grey sweatshirt.

Taking it in his mouth, the overwhelming scent of Phil filled his head and sent him spinning. Literally. He’d done it! He’d finally gotten hold of Coulson’s sweatshirt and there was nothing the man could do about it! It was finally _his_!

His eyes darted around the room, looking for someplace, _anyplace_ , to hide the shirt and keep it for his very own. He noticed the way the blankets came all the way down to the floor on the bed and he wished it were possible for dogs to smile wickedly. The shirt was still dangling from his mouth as he moved to nudge the edge of the blanket up and look under the bed. It was fairly empty save for rogue dust bunnies and a suitcase or two. It was _perfect_.

Little body shimmying under the bed, Clint wiggled himself up to the head end and positioned himself between the two pieces of luggage. It wasn’t easy, but he managed to arrange them around him to create a nest of sorts, and Coulson’s sweatshirt was his first stolen item.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Phil paused when he stepped through his door and found the living room and dining room empty. He’d been expecting to find Clint asleep on the couch or on his blanket under the table. What he _wasn’t_ expecting to find though, was his bedroom door open. His left eyebrow lifted slightly as he shook his head and closed the door, locking it behind him before moving further into the room. He set the bag of take out down on the dining room table and kept his attention on removing the containers of food instead of the bedroom door.

“Clint? I brought home dinner.”

The corner of his mouth tweaked up when he heard the shuffle from within the room just moments before a short, stout figure came barreling out of his room, tripped, and slid on his nose across the floor. He would have been more concerned, maybe even worried…if it hadn’t been for the grey sweatshirt that was pooled around Clint’s head when he finally came to a stop. The same grey shirt that Clint had, for whatever crazy reasons, been trying for months to get a hold of.

Arms folded over his chest, Phil rested his hip against the table and leaned his weight into it while Clint scrambled to stand back up right again. It was totally pathetic and he had no idea how Clint had done it, but the damn man—dog—was _wearing_ his shirt. Front legs through the arms and the hole for his neck hanging down in front of him.

“Barton,” Phil’s voice nearly broke trying to keep his laughter in, “ _no_. That is my sweatshirt and I’d appreciate it if you gave it back.”

Clint’s eyes twinkled in an unseen smile, his entire body wiggling as his tail wagged.

Phil pushed away from the table and moved to step closer to him, Clint taking it as a challenge and stepped backwards.

“Barton, you’re being ridiculous. You can’t wear my shirt. I won’t even ask you how you managed to get into it in the first place. Or why, but you need to give it back now.”

His front half fell into a crouch and head ducked as he growled softly, playfully, at Phil. It wasn’t exactly a smart move to make, but hey, Clint had worked long and hard to get that shirt! He wasn’t going to let Coulson just reach out and take it back. There was a moment of hesitation from Phil where Clint could tell the man wasn’t sure if he should reach out for it or not.

“Clint…that’s not entirely fair, is it? I don’t get to wear your clothes.” It was obvious the agent was trying to joke, but there was that hint from before that was underlying it all.

Clint tilted his head and turned –carefully—to wander back into Coulson’s room and return a moment later with Stark’s “talking collar”. Dropping it at the man’s feet, he tilted his head again and the shit-eating-smirk look returned to his eyes.

 _You could always wear this, Sir._ He thought with a smirk.

Coulson looked down at the collar and didn’t need it to know that was exactly what Clint was thinking. He stooped to pick it up and tossed it onto the entertainment center before turning his back to the dog.

“Inappropriate, Barton. Really…really inappropriate. At least take the shirt off so you don’t get anything on it. Then get over here and eat your dinner, you little brat.”

His eyes brightened all the more as he turned to carefully trot back into Coulson’s bedroom and stash the shirt under the bed again. He paused long enough to make sure it was well hidden before he rejoined the agent in the dining room and shared the container of chicken alfredo he’d brought home for them.

That night, after the dishes were done and put away and after the TV had been shut off, Clint made the conscious decision to follow Coulson into the bedroom. He was tired of sleeping alone in the dining room. It was lonely and too quiet, and when Phil turned to wish Clint a goodnight, he found the dog already slipping by him. Moving to shimmy back under the bed. To his credit, Coulson didn’t tell him he couldn’t sleep in the room with him.

“You’re going to sleep under the bed now?” His voice was tired but light as he moved to change out into the sweats at the end of the bed. A muffled ‘Erf’ was what he got in reply, which he took as a yes.

Chuckling, Phil picked a T-shirt up off the floor and tugged it on over his head. He left the scattered clothes where they were for the moment and shuffled into the bathroom, closing the door part way. Clint slowly moved to peek out from under the edge of the comforter, his eyes watching the door and the thin strip of light that fell across the floor. He ducked his head back under covers when he heard water hitting water, and felt a flush creep over him at being so nosy. Deciding it was better to _not_ spy on Coulson while the man was getting ready to hit the sheets, Clint wiggled his way to his little nest and snuggled himself down into the soft, familiar shirt.

A moment later the light turned out and there was a creak of springs as Coulson lowered himself down onto the bed and got settled. Clint stared through the darkness, up at the spot where he figured the man’s head would be and gave a heavy sigh. What he’d give to lay up there with him. To snuggle in against his chest and have the man hold him close all through the night.

“That shirt is really going to need to be washed, soon, Barton.”

Phil’s voice was soft and slightly muffled as it carried through the dark room. Clint’s reply was nothing more than a guttural groan and huff.

“No, really. It’s going to start to stink. It’s still sweaty from our last jog.”

And didn’t Clint know it. He smiled softly to himself as he nuzzled his nose down into the soft folds and breathed deep. Weird? Maybe. But it really was a comforting smell and one that he was in no hurry to get rid of.

As his body relaxed into the piece of fabric, surrounded on all sides and with Coulson sleeping right above him, Clint felt himself drift off to sleep.

Through the darkness, right as he started to fall into the depths of dreamland, a voice filled his head. Soft and gentle, affectionate and maybe even a bit unsure.

“Pleasant dreams, Clint…”

Clint whimpered in return.

_Sweet dreams, Phil…_


	3. Chapter 3

Week two turned into week three and still they were no closer to finding out how Pavlov’s gun worked. Or how to change Clint back into a human. Bruce and Tony had met with Pavlov a dozen times, questioning him and showing him the gun again and again, and still the kid (at least to them twenty-two was still considered a “kid”) had no insight to give them. Truthfully, he was just as surprised that it had worked as they were.

 _“I never expected it to work! Honest! I…I…I was just trying to get people’s attention_.”

_“Well you got people’s attention alright,” Tony had spat, his hand raking through his hair as he paced the little cell Pavlov was being kept in. “Just the wrong kind of attention.”_

_“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. I just want to try and raise awareness…get people to realize that animals have feelings too. Ya know?” Pavlov’s eyes darted between the two men in front of him._

_“…you were dropped on your head as an infant, weren’t you?”_

_Bruce’s jaw dropped slightly. “TONY!”_

_“Alright, alright…sorry. Let’s try this, **theoretically,** how long was a person supposed to stay changed? How would you have turned them back if you’d planned for this to work?”_

_Pavlov worried at his lip and gave a hesitant shrug. “I…I don’t know. I…hadn’t…planned that far?”_

_“Oh for fuck’s—“_

_Beside him, Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and focused on his breathing. It wouldn’t do them any good to let the Other Guy question the kid. Even if he was starting to literally turn green around the gills._

Clint knew he should be getting antsy and frustrated. But he wasn’t. He’d become quite comfortable living in Phil’s apartment with him, going for walks together and spending time lounging on the couch. Not to mention, he’d found sleeping under Coulson’s bed to be one of the best places in the world. Second only to what he imagined sleeping _on_ the bed to be like.

He and Phil were comfortable around each other. It was easy to forget there’d ever been a time where they hadn’t shared a place together. More and more he found himself just watching Coulson do all those little inane domestic things like clean, or cook. He even watched while Phil sat at the dining room table, his dark rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose to work on paying bills or balancing his checkbook at the end of every week. It was the little things like that that set a warm, comfortable weight in the pit of his stomach. That made him huff and sigh contently.

And it wasn’t lost on him that there was a new twist to Coulson’s smile when the man would get home and find him standing on the couch in greeting. That over the days of spending time together Clint would catch Phil staring at him and their eyes would lock—even if just for a few seconds, before Coulson would duck his head and look away, a faint flush creeping up his neck. It was only during those times that Clint wished they’d hurry up and change him back. He wanted so much to find out if Phil would still look at him that way once he’s back to being human again.

So many days, while Coulson would be off playing quiet, unassuming, hero (because that’s what he was, the unspoken and underappreciated super-non-super-hero), Clint would stay curled up under the bed, gathering things to add to his little nest: a shirt that had been lying on the floor for a couple of days was obviously forgotten about and therefore fair game. Those shoes laying around the living room that hadn’t been moved or put away since he got there? Well, let’s just say there was one shoe shy of three complete pairs. There was a softbound book that smelled the most like Phil and was promptly propped reverently against the wall (even if Clint had no idea what it was about and had no intentions of reading it. Ever.)

At night, they’d find themselves out for long, quiet walks, circling the block and then some before they finally would return home and Clint would crawl up into Phil’s lap.

That was exactly where they were as the third week was drawing to an end. Phil had taken the day off to spend time with Clint (which earned the seasoned agent more than a few snickers and looks from his peers when they heard _why_ the man was taking the day off… _again_. It was no secret Coulson didn’t take days off, and yet... with Clint in the condition he was, and home alone all day, the man had already requested more days off in a month than he did the whole year) and the pair had settled in to watch the ‘GhostHunters’ marathon on SyFy.

Well, it was really more on as background noise for Clint. He was too busy getting comfortable on Phil’s lap, pawing lightly at his thigh in silent request for him to shift one way or another. Phil chuckled softly as he leaned and shifted, creating a sort of cradle with his body for Barton to snuggle into. Hey, he was offering, Clint wasn’t going to turn it down. It didn’t take long at all before those magical fingers were stroking through his hair and down his body. Oh yeah, he’d definitely died and gone to heaven.

His eyes fell shut as he allowed the calming repetitive motion to lull him to sleep.

He’d heard people say once that dogs didn’t dream. Well, he’d seen plenty of dogs sleep and seen them snort and twitch their feet in their sleep, he didn’t buy that claim for a minute. Even less so when he found himself start to dream. God what a good dream it was too.

Hands roamed over smooth, taut skin. Lips brushed against lips as bodies fell flush on a soft, comfortable bed. There were moans and stuttered gasps, names falling quietly into the darkened room while fingers grasped for purchase at anything they could get. He couldn’t see the faces, but the bodies he knew intimately. One was his own, the other—the one with the jagged scar on his chest and back—the other belonged to the man whose lap he was currently napping on.

Clint whined thinly as he rolled on Coulson’s lap. His breathing was just as ragged as it was in his dream. He was too deep into it to notice. It wasn’t until Phil’s hand moved to absently run down his chest and stomach that Clint started to realize something was wrong. And when Phil yanked his hand back like he’d been burned, a startled gasp cutting through the air, Barton was awake and falling from the man’s lap in an instant.

He didn’t know what was wrong, if something on ‘GhostHunters’ had actually surprised or scared Coulson or what. All he did know was he was ready to spring into action if need be. And that Phil was staring at him with the most terrifying expression ever. There was confusion, surprise, a dash of fear, and maybe even just a tiny hint of disgust written all over his face. It cut through Clint like a knife and he didn’t even know what he’d done to deserve such a look!

At least…not until a chill went through him. A chill that started at a very particular place on his body and moved inward. It caused a peculiar twitch against his stomach and a stuttered whimper to fall from his mouth.

_Oh God…please no. Please...please, no…_

Very slowly, he turned his head to glance at his stomach. What he saw, bright pink and poking out from under a blanket of white fur, was enough to send him hauling ass out of the living room and under Phil’s bed; whining and whimpering pathetically the whole way.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Phil didn’t sleep in his room that night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Clint finally dared to slink out into the open again in the morning, the man was already gone.

Hailey visited Clint three times that day. Once for his morning walk. Once for his afternoon walk. Once for his evening walk.

By the time Phil got home late that night, Clint had drug the blanket from under the dining table into Phil’s room and under the bed. He’d added it to his small collection of things and buried himself under it. A feeble attempt to suffocate himself to death just so he wouldn’t have to face Coulson again. Not after that embarrassment.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Things seemed to tense up again after that. There were still plates for breakfast left out for Clint, but it was Hailey who would take him for walks. Phil would come home and make dinner, or bring something back with him; he’d take Clint for a nightly walk, but there was no lingering and wandering and definitely no cuddling on the couch.

In fact, Coulson would carefully pick Clint up and set him back down on the floor any time he got up there.

In short: Phil was treating him like a _dog_.

No more one sided conversations that would have Clint acting out and giving looks to try and act as replies. No more helping to pull pans and dishes out of the cabinets to make dinner with. Gone were all the little things Phil would do to try and make Clint feel like he was still a person deep down inside (well, except for the food. Thank _God_ Coulson hadn’t started to buy him kibble!). It was a pain so fierce and jagged that Clint could hardly find it in him to come out from under the bed.

He’d screwed things up.

 _Well, that’s your life in a nutshell, it’s it? A screw up? Hell, can’t even be a decent dog. What the absolute actual fuck, Barton? You’re why you can’t have nice things…_ He thought to himself as he shoved at the blanket and shoe under the bed. He’d been hiding there most of the night and hadn’t even come out when he heard Coulson get home an hour before.

He’d been starting in on settling down to nap again when there was a knock at the door just seconds before it opened.

“Phillip? Anyone home?”

Like a shot, Clint was out from under the bed and skidding into the doorway. That had definitely been a female’s voice. Definitely one he didn’t recognize and it sure as hell sounded way too comfortable calling Phil, _Phillip_.

He watched with wide eyes as Phil bustled out of the kitchen, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie missing from around his neck. He didn’t miss the way he was promptly ignored for the woman stepping into the room.

She was just an inch or two shorter than Phil with sleek brown hair. It was pulled up into a stylish bun that hid the length of it well. Her clothes were a conservative business skirt suit that showed off all the right curves in all the right places. There was something about her that reminded Clint a little bit of Pepper Potts…and he wasn’t sure if he liked that or not.

“Monica. I wasn’t expecting you back for another couple of weeks.”

Clint’s blood froze in his veins as the woman—Monica, apparently—wrapped her arms around Coulson’s shoulders and pressed herself in close, her lips pressed to his in a long, slow kiss. Okay, so his brief moment of hoping she was a sister or cousin could be thrown out the window. He carefully crept from the bedroom and into the living room, keeping to the shadows and trying to make himself as small as possible. His eyes never left Coulson, or the way the man seemed to sense that Clint was making his way closer. The agent’s movements seemed mechanical and not at all relaxed as he pulled back from the kiss and let his hands rest on the woman’s hips.

“Mm, well, the orchestra conductor fell and broke his arm. He’s fine, but, we had to cancel the rest of our practices until a replacement can be found. So, I hopped the first plane available and here I am! You don’t mind do you? I know you’re probably busy, but…well, I missed you.”

Bile rose up in Clint’s throat. So _this_ was The Cellist?

It was official.

Clint hated her.

Phil’s smile was bright, but it wasn’t nearly as open and soft as the ones he’d given Clint. This was a mask, the type of smile he’d give while talking to Pepper or even Thor while being Agent Coulson. It was far from a _Phil_ smile.

“Of course I don’t mind. I was just getting ready to fix some dinner. Come in.” Phil turned away from Clint and moved to take the woman’s small carry-on bag from her.

Fine. Phil wasn’t going to introduce them? Clint would introduce himself. With a _POUNCE_ Clint landed on the couch next to the bag, his front paws on the back cushion and his eyes locked intently on the woman.

“ _Hi!_ ” He barked once, drawing her attention and scaring her half to death. _Good._

Phil didn’t even bother to glance at the couch. “Hawkeye, down.”

“Phillip, you got a dog? When did this happen?” Her voice was tight and apprehension rolled off her in thick plumes. She was scared of dogs. Clint could smell it. _Even better!_

Coulson sighed and rolled his eyes as he moved to shove Clint back down onto the floor. “I didn’t. I’m watching him until a friend returns.”

Clint yelped in surprise as his butt slid off the couch and he fell the short distance down. The chill to Phil’s voice hurt more than the impact. He shot the other man a cold glare and shook as he stood himself back up. The look was ignored as Phil moved to go back into the kitchen, Monica slowly trailing behind.

Maybe he was an immature twelve-year-old at heart, but Clint couldn’t help but smirk to himself and trot along behind her. He loved every quiet squeak that came out of her mouth whenever he got closer. In truth, he wanted to bolt past her and go take a chunk out of Coulson’s leg. He’d never told him about Monica. Of course Clint had known there’d been a cellist back before the Loki-incident, but he’d never learned a name or seen a picture. Hell, he’d started to think she wasn’t even real! Now the woman was scurrying after Phil and moving in on his turf. He didn’t like that.

A leg suddenly caught him at the midsection and slid him back into the dining room. Apparently Coulson didn’t really seem to like Clint’s actions either. It couldn’t be considered a kick, because it wasn’t. It wasn’t really much different than if someone caught him around the waist with their arms and pulled him back from attacking. Only difference was it was a leg instead of arms, and a push back instead of a tug to stay put. Hell it didn’t even hurt, but that didn’t mean it didn’t get another yelp.

“Don’t worry. He’s harmless.” Phil’s voice was directed to Monica even if his eyes were boring holes straight through Clint.

For the first time since getting to SHIELD and becoming Coulson’s subordinate, Clint felt like the lowest piece of scum on earth. Head ducking down and tail tucked low; he looked up at Phil with sad eyes and whined softly.

 _I’m sorry._ He whined, taking half a step closer. _I’m **sorry** , Phil. Please make her leave so we can go back to how we were? Please?_

There was a moment where Phil’s eyes seemed to soften, where Clint thought he might have seen a bit of an apology in those gorgeous grey-blues. Phil gave a minute shake of his head. Clint’s head fell lower as he turned and slunk off to lie under the table. At least from there he could keep an eye on things.

Which he did.

The whole night.

Any time Monica got close to Phil, Clint would bark. If she moved to touch the man, Clint would walk just a little too close to her. The few times she leaned in for a kiss? Clint pretended to see something out the window and would throw an absolute fit. The only time he stopped and stopped for _good_ was when Coulson threatened to put him on the fire escape. Clint knew it wasn’t a threat. It was a _promise_.

God he hated that woman even more!

He knew he’d fucked up that night on the couch, but hadn’t he been punished enough for that? And it wasn’t even like it had been his fault, either! It wasn’t like he’d _wanted_ that to happen! It just _had_! Yet Coulson overreacted and made him feel like he was nothing more than a disgusting animal that couldn’t control its urges. The fact he didn’t give in to the urge to go bite the woman’s foot off should have been proof that he wasn’t just a dirty animal. If he really couldn’t control his urges, he would have humped at Phil’s leg ages ago…even _before_ he’d been turned into a dog.

Lying under the table, watching as Monica had turned on some Frank Sinatra and convinced Phil to dance with her in the living room, Clint felt like his world was crumbling around him.

Pain tore through his chest as he watched the pair hold each other close and sway back and forth to “Moon River”. That song was officially ruined for him now. He whimpered and whined softly when Monica’s hand slipped into Phil’s hair; Coulson’s hand slipping to rest on her lower back. God he wanted to throw himself off the balcony it hurt so bad. He rubbed at his eyes with his paws, trying to scratch out the image of them dancing, of them being close enough for Monica to brush her lips against the soft spot under Phil’s ear and murmur quiet things to him.

The soft click of the bedroom door shutting and locking pulled Clint out of his head. When he blinked open his eyes, the living room was empty. The air around him thinned as he put two-and-two together. Racing from his spot under the table, he charged at the door, slamming head first into it. It didn’t budge. He tried again. Still nothing. Whimpering, he propped himself on his hind legs and pressed his front paws against the door, scratching at it gently like he had his first night there. When that got nothing but a grumbled “ _Go lay down, Hawkeye_ ,” Clint nearly lost his mind.

There was no way Coulson would do this to him. No way the man would go about his life as if Clint weren’t there. Surely his handler, the man he’d come to call his friend and whom he’d carried a weakly burning torch for, wouldn’t be cruel enough to subject Clint to listening as he made love to someone else.

_It’s another Phil. An evil Phil. And I’ll kill him._

Bolting for the coffee table, Clint slapped at the little black Doggy Cell he’d been given. He barely waited for it to hit the floor before his paw came crashing down on the button for Coulson’s cell. A second later his ringtone drifted from the bedroom. It played through once before it faded away to go to voicemail. Growling low in his throat, Clint smashed the button again. And again after that. And again! He continued to hit the button until the song abruptly cut off and there was a crack of plastic hitting door.

Clint tried to ignore the other sounds coming from the room, he tried so desperately hard not to think about Phil’s hands roaming someone else’s body, lips trailing kisses and gentle licks down another person’s neck and chest. He wanted to scream. A mournful howl came out instead.

Filled with all sorts of feelings he hadn’t experienced in ages, Clint flipped the cell away and tore off around the couch. He skidded to a halt when he spied Monica’s purse on the floor by the door.

Later, if anyone were to ask (and if psych had it their way, they would be asking later): “Clint? Why did you tear apart that woman’s purse?” He’d tell them it must have been animal instinct and she shouldn’t have left it where he could reach it. If they asked why he ripped her wallet, IDs and credit cards to shreds? He’d shrug and say he was bored, they were there, and he could. And if they happened to ask why he chewed her half of a picture off and left Coulson’s side alone? Clint would tell them she was a bitch and to mind their own fucking business.

Debris scattered around Coulson’s living room, Clint gently picked up Phil’s side of the picture he’d found in her wallet (a picture of the two of them at some casual outing a couple of years ago. He didn’t know what it was, but Phil was in a T-shirt and ball cap, smiling at the camera, and that was really all Clint cared about) and carried it under the dining table to hide. He already knew Phil was going to be furious with him, and hell he was already feeling like a complete and total jackass for what he’d done. It wasn’t going to be cheap or fun to replace everything he’d torn up…but at least he didn’t eat the bottle of Midol that’d been in there? That had to be a plus, right? He wasn’t going to try and off himself in an attempt to get Phil’s attention again.

The picture on the floor between his paws, Clint lowered his snout to rest just at the bottom edge of it. He stare sadly at the smiling face of the man he’d fallen hopelessly and pathetically in love with.

And whose girlfriend he’d just destroyed property of.

Okay. So he was a _jealous_ , immature twelve-year-old inside.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Before the first rays of sun could peek into the windows, Clint was up and moving to check Coulson’s door. It was still shut tight and quiet inside. His heart heavy, he turned back to where he’d flicked the cell and stared at it forlornly. Gently, he pressed down on the _Coulson_ button. No song drifted from the man’s room. Not even a muffled note or two. With a whimper, he looked back to the mess he’d made the night before and felt slightly sick.

Coulson was going to kill him.

He had to get out, and fast.

Looking back down at the cell, he pressed down for Natasha and waited. There was a speaker built into the back of the oversized cell phone, and a microphone on the front. He heard the other line ring three times before it was answered.

“Barton. This had better be important.”

Clint whimpered and laid down to stare at the phone pathetically. There was a silence on the other end before the sound of fabric rustled and Clint knew Natasha was already getting up and dressed.

“Clint? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

He gave another whine, not like he could really answer her anyways. Coulson had tossed his other collar out of his reach. Even if he hadn’t, Clint wouldn’t have had any way to put it on and use it. Nat sighed heavily.

“Stay there. I’m on my way.”

The line went dead before Clint’s cell clicked off. He glanced over his shoulder at Phil’s door and hung his head a little lower. Feet coming back up to support him, Clint moved to the window that had been cracked after dinner the night before. It led out onto the fire escape and right then he needed to be away from things. He needed to be up high in the open air.

Getting the window open wasn’t all that difficult, it was getting out that was the hard part. The window itself was a good foot and a half off the floor and it took Clint a couple of tries before his feet got the grip they needed to hold on and pull himself through. From there it was a cake-walk. The landing for the escape was about even with the window and he was able to navigate the holes in the grate easy enough.

He flopped himself down and rested his chin on his paws. The sun was just barely starting to creep up between buildings and high-rises, setting fire to the sky in beautiful pale blues and pinks. If he were to admit to himself he was a pathetic romantic, he’d let himself sigh wistfully and think about how nice it’d be to sit out on the escape with Phil to watch the sunrise together. That wasn’t going to happen though. Not after everything that’d happened.

It wasn’t long before a Yellow Cab pulled up to the corner and a beautiful, lithe woman slipped from the backseat. Clint wasn’t going to question how or why Natasha knew Phil’s address—she was a super-spy after all, and she was wicked good at her job too. He watched as she slipped him a little extra money, a bribe to wait for her to return before she crossed the street and started for Phil’s building. Shoving himself up onto his paws, Clint stuck his head between the bars and watched her.

“ _Tasha! Tasha up here! Hey, your roots are showing! Look up!”_ Clint barked. Even though he knew she couldn’t understand him (or at least, he assumed she couldn’t), her green eyes flashed up to the third floor fire escape and narrowed at him threateningly.

“I won’t even ask why you’re out here.” She called back up to him quietly; people were still trying to sleep after all. “I’m coming up.”

Giving a nod, and wisely not questioning how she was going to get in through the locked ground door, he turned and dropped back into the living room. The shower was running in Phil’s bathroom, the bedroom door cracked just enough to let the sound through. Clint’s heart jumped into his throat as he moved to quickly grab Phil’s picture from under the table. His legs moved at top speed as he ran for the bedroom, picture carefully held between his teeth. The door opened easily this time and Clint heard the faint sounds of a woman humming in the bathroom.

He chose to ignore those sounds.

Instead, he wiggled himself back under the bed and tucked Phil’s picture into his make-shift nest. He didn’t know why he did it, but he rustled around until he had it buried under the sweatshirt. The sweatshirt he was probably never going to see again.

“Get out of here, Barton.” Phil’s voice was muffled and sleep filled, but it wasn’t harsh or cold like it was before. It almost sounded warm and pleading, as if he were trying to give Clint a chance to escape before Monica got done with her shower and came back into the room.

Clint swallowed hard and stayed perfectly still. At least until the knock sounded at the door.

_Natasha, you’re a Saint, an angel, and my personal savior._

The knock came again a moment later when Phil made no attempt to get out of bed.

“Barton? Please leave so I can get dressed and go answer the door.”

His heart sunk down to the very tips of his tiny dog toes. He crawled out from under the bed and slowly trudged out the door. In just a matter of seconds, Phil was stepping out behind him; hair all sleep tousled and dark burgundy flannel sleeper pants hung low on his hips. Clint turned his eyes away. He didn’t want to admire any amount of skin that was just flashed to him before the man’s old Rangers T-shirt was pulled down over his head.

Already knowing who was on the other side of the door, Clint moved to stand dejectedly by the mess he’d made. He prayed to _God_ that Coulson wouldn’t notice it. There was a stutter to the man’s step when he got to the door though and Clint know then that either there _was_ no God, or the deity hated his guts. Either way, he refused to lift his eyes and met the stare he knew was being pointed at him.

Phil’s hand slowly reached out and clicked the deadlock before opening the door. For a minute, both agents stood there staring at each other. There was a twitch at the corner of Nat’s mouth that said she was clearly trying not to laugh at the sight of Coulson looking so befuddled and debauched.

“Agent? What are you doing here?” To his credit, Phil didn’t end that sentence with _at this ungodly hour_. And even more credit that he was even acting semi-human, given that he hadn’t had a cup of coffee or gone for a jog.

 _Must be leftover after-sex-glow…_ Clint grumbled softly next to Phil’s foot, drawing the attention of both handler and best friend.

“I got a very unusual wakeup call at 5 o’clock.”

“Oh?” Phil’s voice sounded genuinely surprised and maybe even a bit concerned. Clint didn’t care though. He just wanted out. He _needed_ out.

Natasha had just opened her mouth to respond when the bedroom door opened wider and Monica stepped into view, dressed in one of Phil’s work shirts (the one Phil had been wearing the night before, actually. The bitch.) and a pair of his boxers too (double bitch).

“Phillip? Is everything okay?”

“Uh—“

“Hi,” Tasha’s voice suddenly piped, a bright smile splashed across her face as she moved to carefully step over the pile of chewed up and cracked cards. “I didn’t mean to barge in like this so early. I’m Natalie Rushman, I work with Phil. He’s been watching my dog for me.”

Her eyes darted back to Phil’s and it was only because the trio had worked so many missions together and worked so well together that no other words were needed. The cover story was already in play and it was time to just make things up as they went along. Relief flashed across Monica’s face as she smiled and straightened her posture.

“Oh! It’s a pleasure to meet you, Natalie. Phil’s told me so much about you! He just didn’t tell me that it was your dog he was watching.”

“Must have slipped my mind,” Phil half-muttered as he moved to collect Clint’s leash. Tasha’s smile never wavered as she bent to scoop Clint up in her arms.

His head turned and he flicked his tongue over her cheek a few times in a silent thanks. He still couldn’t bring himself to meet Phil’s eyes when the man moved back over to them and handed her the leash. Tasha took the leash carefully and gave the man a questioning look. She had no idea what was going on, but whatever had happened must not have been good. Not if Clint was calling her at five in the morning to come get him. Phil shook his head slightly.

“Here’s his leash. Glad I could help out.”

“Thanks. Uh, he actually had another collar with him when I dropped him off. A black one?”

Recognition flashed over Phil’s face as he nodded and moved for the entertainment center. He plucked it off the surface and held it out to the woman silently. Clint flinched when he was shifted and Phil’s hand brushed over his back.

“Thanks again.” Natasha’s smile and act never faltered as she moved back for the door. She paused at the door and smiled back sympathetically at the woman still standing in Phil’s doorway. “I’m so sorry about your bag and cards. Just, tell Phil how much everything came to to replace and I’ll write out a check for them. It was nice meeting you.”

Bless the super-spy for keeping the cringe locked up inside until she was safely on the other side of the door and moving down the stairs at a brisk bounce.

“You are going to owe me a lot of money and a huge explanation for this one, Barton.”

Clint just whimpered and groaned pathetically.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

His body fell like a lump onto Natasha’s bed, an honest to God groan coming from the speaker on his collar.

“I didn’t know what else to do, Nat! I fucked everything up! Jesus fuck, I sprung a damn doggy-boner right there on his lap! It’s bad enough when it happens when I’m human, but at least then there’s ways for me to cover it up. This was _right there_! Right out in the open for the whole world to see. And Phil he…you should have seen the look he gave me, Nat. I haven’t felt that dirty and ashamed of myself in _years_.”

The bed dipped gently as Natasha pulled her legs up under her and sat next to Clint’s head. Delicate fingers stroked across his ears and down to scratch under the collar. He knew he was being a total pussy about the whole situation, and crying to his best friend was probably the gayest thing he’d ever done, but he didn’t care. Hell, he even wanted to just curl up in blankets and scarf down an entire pint of Triple Chocolate Brownie Chunk ice cream.

“He…he treated me like a _dog_ after that. He wouldn’t even speak to me. It wasn’t my fault! It wasn’t like I wanted for him to see that. Hell, I booked it and hid under his fucking bed when I realized what happened. And then…then _she_ showed up and he acted like I wasn’t even there! Or like how a normal person would act with a _normal_ dog around. I had to _listen to them_! _ALL NIGHT!!_ Okay, so maybe it was only like an hour, but still! I shouldn’t have had to hear someone else cry out his name like that! I…I…I flipped, okay? No, I shouldn’t have destroyed her things but…”

“But you were acting like the jealous little boy you are and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I know.”

Clint lifted his head off the pillow and glared at her, his eyes narrowed threateningly.

“Thanks for that, Nat. You’re a gem. Really. You’re supposed to be making me feel better, not worse. Take this collar off me. I don’t want you hearing what I’m going to think about you next.”

A soft laugh bubbled out of Natasha’s mouth as she pulled Clint up into her arms and pressed her lips gently to his head. He squirmed for just a second before she released him and his head landed with a _thunk_ against her thigh. For a long, painful moment, neither of them said a word.

“…I don’t know how to fix this, Tash. I—“

“You love him. Yes, I know.” She sighed heavily as her fingers twisted around Clint’s fur gently. “The answer is simple. You’re not going to like it though.”

“That’s not a surprise. I hate simple things.”

“You need to talk to him. After you turn back, that way he doesn’t get confused by all your scattered, freaked out thoughts. Though…maybe I should call him right now. This collar is an awful lot like a truth serum. Might do you both some good for him to hear what you’re _actually_ thinking.”

Clint bared his teeth in a snarl. “Don’t. Even. Try it. I will bite you somewhere that won’t be pleasant for either of us. And then go piss in one shoe and not tell you which one.”

Natasha laughed again, like she knew it was the emptiest of all threats in the world (which…it was). Turning to curl up on her side, she pulled him against her and buried her nose into his soft neck. It felt good to be held again.

“You can stay here with me until you change back. Then you talk to Coulson.”

Her warm breath ruffled his fur and caused him to shiver slightly.

“What if I don’t change back?”

“…then you convince him there are cultures that condone bestiality and that you two should move there and get married.”

Her voice was flat and serious, like Clint had just asked the most obvious question ever. For the first time in weeks the sound of Clint’s laughter echoed through the Tower.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It wasn’t terrible being back in Avengers Tower, but it wasn’t nearly as nice as it’d been at Phil’s. Clint would get fed with everyone else, whether he could technically have it as a dog or not (it was totally cool for a dog to scarf down half a pepperoni and spicy sausage double-crust pizza with Thor, right?). He’d still get to go for walks a few times a day (he learned to hold it for more hours than his bladder cared for real quick though and Tony _so_ didn’t understand the significance of using the alley dumpster instead of the shiny red fire hydrant like other dogs did). At night, he’d curl up on the couch with Bruce and Steve and doze through whatever boring documentary they’d picked that night (at least, that’s where he’d be for a little while. He’d eventually migrate back down to Natasha’s floor and curl up against her back to sleep the rest of the night).

He’d been trapped in a dog’s body for nearly a month when he felt things start to change. It happened slow at first. A warming sensation that began in his tail and grew with intensity while he was curled up in bed with Nat. He whimpered as the feeling grew and grew, until it finally felt like every bone in his body was breaking and shifting. It was the most excruciating experience he’d ever been through in his life (and that was including when his brother abandoned him, all the times he’d been shot, being told Coulson was dead…being told Fury lied and Coulson was alive…and the heartache he’d suffered while staying at Phil’s apartment). Howls of agony turned to gut-wrenching screams as his body slowly returned itself back to his natural, human state.

The rest of the team, startled from their sleep by JARVIS’s alarm, stood in horror outside Natasha’s door. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen Clint naked—the man had little shame and was first to drop trou when someone yelled ‘Skinny Dipping!’—but never had they seen him like that. Blond-brown hair hung down in wet clumps around his eyes and his skin looked as if he’d fallen asleep naked under a heat lamp. His entire body trembled and shook from the sudden chill around him as he pressed his face to Natasha’s shoulder and sobs wrecked through him.

Bruce was the first to spring into action, having firsthand knowledge and experience in how painful it was to have your body twisted and tangled like that. He moved for the bed and carefully pulled the discarded blanket up around the man’s trembling shoulders. He didn’t have to ask for Widow’s help before she was moving to set Clint up and get him to his feet. After a month of running around on four stumpy limbs, it was going to take a little while before the man would be able to stand and walk on his own properly again.

With Bruce on one side, Natasha on the other, they managed to get Clint down to the Tower’s infirmary and into a bed. Clint thought he might have heard Tony say he was going to call Coulson, and almost heard Bruce saying his name. The pain was still too much for his mind to handle though, and he gave himself up to the blessedly dark oblivion.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He’d woken up some time later to the feel of a hand pressed to the back of his. It was warm and familiar, with a gentle strength he’d come to know better than anything else in the world. His head was full of fog and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get his eyes to do much more than barely crack open.

“Barton? Clint? You’re okay…you’re at the Tower.”

He wanted to say something, to answer the voice that was quietly speaking in his ear (always in his ear, drawing him back from all his dark places and making him smile while they were alone), but his vocal cords were raw and it hurt to even try to form words.

“Shhh, don’t talk. It’s okay. Rest, Barton. There’s plenty of people here who would be more than happy to hear your voice again once you’re better. You just have to get better first.”

The voice had moved closer, brushing over his ear and tickling against his skin.

“I’m sorry, Clint…I’m so sorry...”

Those words rang through his ears as the darkness swept back up to claim him once again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The day he was finally cleared from medical, Natasha was there to greet him. Or corner him. One of the two. She had a bag of his clothes in her hands and God he’d never been so happy to pull on a pair of pants in his _life_!!

“Nat, I’m going to build a shrine in your honor someday. And name my firstborn after you.”

His voice was still gruff, far gruffer than usual, but it was at least getting better. At least he wasn’t coughing after every third word anymore.

When he lifted his eyes from pulling his beloved red T-shirt and beat up grey zip-front hoodie out of the bag, he was greeted with a cold, calculating glare from the woman. Her arms were folded over her chest, lips pursed and one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched dangerously at him. When she did nothing but stare at him (in the ultra-creepy way he wished he could take credit for teaching her) he rolled his eyes and yanked the shirt over his head.

“Do I need to find that psychic collar for you to wear, Nat, cuz I’m not sure glaring at me is really going to get you anywhere right now.”

“You need to go talk to him, Clint.”

“Who?”

He flinched as a hand delivered a sharp smack to the back of his head.

“Hey! I’m still healing, damnit!”

“You know damn well, _who_ , Barton. Coulson. He was really worried about you.”

Clint gave an undignified snort as he pulled his hoodie on and unashamedly nestled down into it. His blue-green eyes flicked over to stare into Nat’s cold greens. He’d never promised or even said he’d go talk to Coulson once he got changed back. Plus, if Coulson was so worried, then how come he never once came by to visit while Clint had been recovering?

He looked away from her frozen glare and turned his eyes back down to the scratchy blanket on the bed.

“Did you know he’s got freckles?” It was a random thing to ask, but it was better than all the other random or pissed off things floating through his mind at the moment. There was a quiet rustle of cloth next to him, but he didn’t turn to look.

“No, I didn’t.”

His head bobbed in a nod. “Real faint ones. Right across…right here…” His finger moved across the bridge of his nose as a soft, half laugh escaped his lips.

“He’s got fish too. Two of ‘em…Natasha and Barton. Heh. Wonder what that’s s’pposed to mean. That he’d name his fish after us?”

He was sure Natasha had some theory on why Coulson would do that, but she chose to keep it to herself. Instead, she reached her hand out to rest it gently on his shoulder.

“I don’t know, Clint. Maybe that’s something you should ask him when you go talk to him.”

Clint’s head lifted finally at that, his eyes dark with mixed emotions. As much as he wanted to go talk to Coulson, to apologize properly for all the stupid stuff he’d done while in dog form, to apologize for any trouble he may have gotten Phil into with Monica over the purse and cards thing…he just couldn’t.

“I can’t, Tash. I fucked things up big time. There’s no fixing things now. Hell, I’m surprised Fury hasn’t swept in here and kicked me off the team yet.”

“Clint. I’ve never lied to you before, I’m not going to start now. He was worried. And I will hit you again if you don’t pull your head out of your ass and go talk to him. You don’t know there’s no fixing things unless you try. So go. Try.”

His feet stumbled under him as she yanked his arm and pulled him away from the bed. He knew there was no escaping it. She would drag him down to Phil’s office and shove him down across from him, then stand guard outside the room to make sure no one interrupted if she had to. It would be better for his still recovering health if he went on his own.

No matter how terrified he was.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’d been exactly a month and ten days since Clint last strolled through the halls of SHIELD’s mainland headquarters. Thirteen of those days had been spent in Tower medical being poked, prodded and recovering. The other twenty-eight days were what Tony had decided to dub Clint’s “Literal Dog Days”. Yeah, Stark thought he was a riot. He cracked himself up. Hardy-har-har.

Clint ignored the looks he got from people in the halls; he knew what most of them were thinking and he really couldn’t care less. He’d been given a mission, objectives to complete, that’s what he was going to focus on. Nothing else.

Standing outside Coulson’s office far sooner than he’d expected to, he suddenly found himself staring blankly at the door. The last time he saw Phil, the man had treated him poorly. Worse than poorly.

_He treated me like shit._

It was obvious, in Clint’s mind, that Coulson was avoiding him. What other reason could there be for why the man hadn’t even bothered to come see how he was after he’d changed back? Phil was still pissed at him (and with good reason, Clint supposed) and so wanted nothing to do with him. The thought alone was enough to boil up Clint’s blood and get his hand to grasp the doorknob.

Without a knock, or even permission, Clint burst open the door and shoved his way into the room. Coulson didn’t even so much as twitch at the sudden intrusion. He instead lifted his head coolly, and leveled his eyes on Clint. There might have been a flash of something in the man’s eyes, but it didn’t stick around for long before the calm, collected mask of Agent Coulson fell back into place.

“Welcome back, Agent Barton. I take it you’re feeling more like yourself again.” It wasn’t a question and Clint didn’t miss the way the man’s mouth twitched ever so slightly.

“Yeah. Guess you could say that.” It took a lot of self control for Clint not to lash out and just start screaming at the man.

“Glad to hear it. Are you ready to debrief, then?” His voice was clinical, the same tone he’d take with the junior agents who would come to him for whatever reason. It was a far cry from the gentle, laughing voice he’d spent twenty days falling in love with.

“No.”

Coulson’s eyes lifted from his papers. The pen in his hand  landed softly on the table as he folded his fingers together in front of him.

“Excuse me?”

“I said no. I’m not here to debrief. I’m not _going_ to debrief.” In all the years he’d worked for SHIELD, Clint had denied to do a lot of things, but he’d only ever denied doing a debrief once. Fury’d made sure he taught the young sniper just what happened when an employee refused standard operating procedures.

“Agent Barton, you just spent a month as a Corgi because you were hit with a lucky shot from a gun that shouldn’t have even worked. I think that you should—“

“Twenty-eight days, Sir. I was a dog for twenty-eight days. Three in the pound, five at the Tower with the rest of my team, and twenty at your place with you. I’m not doing the debrief.”

For once, Phil gave a heavy sigh and leaned back in his chair. He looked tired, much like he had the day he’d finally found Clint cowering in the back of a cage in Morningside Heights. It was enough to almost detour Clint from saying what he’d gone there to say. _Almost._

“Yes…which is exactly why you need to be debriefed, Agent Barton. I’ve already filed my reports and talked with Deputy Director Hill. If you’d rather report to her for your debriefing then—“

“You don’t _get it_ , _Sir_! I’m _not_ doing the fucking debrief because I’m not going to put all my fucking emotions into a report for Fury to read! That was my _life_ for twenty-eight days! I’m not going to spell out all my feelings on a piece of paper to have them tucked nicely away and get a pat on the head like a good boy.”

“Barton. There’s nothing you can say that would be held against you. Nothing happened in that time that—“

Red suddenly clouded Clint’s vision as he spun from where he’d been pacing and pinned a murderous stare right at the man.

“ _’Nothing happened’?_ With all due respect, _Sir_ , but if that’s what you think and what you told Hill, then you falsified your own account cuz I remember a few things that sure as hell, _definitely_ happened! You don’t get to sit there and tell me they _didn’t_!”

When Natasha had told Clint he needed to go talk to Coulson, she really hadn’t meant for it to happen like that. She’d foolishly thought Barton could be man enough and mature enough to handle things like an adult and not fly off the handle.

She must have forgotten he was the one who chewed up a woman’s purse, wallet, and all forms of identification just because she had Phil alone in bed and he didn’t.

Clint dragged a hand through his already tousled hair, fingers clenching around clumps in frustration as he began pacing the room once more.

“Jesus…you— _Fuck_! You caught me springing a Goddamn doggy-boner for you! It wasn’t just cuz your hands felt good on my body, cuz God did they ever! It was cuz I was having a Goddamn dream about you touching me as a man! Instead of reacting like a normal, rational human being though, you freaked the fuck out and made me feel like I was just some disgusting animal. You even _treated_ me like I was a damn dog! Then you went and screwed that damn cellist bitch while I was _right outside the fucking door!_ So _fuck you very much, **Sir**_! You don’t get to sit there and tell me, to _lie_ to Hill’s _face_ , and say that nothing happened!”

Clint’s fist connected with Coulson’s door frame, the bones making a sickening crunch as they broke on impact. He’d feel it later and curse up a storm over it then.

“So you wanna put something down for my debrief? Fine. Put _that_ down. At least it’d be the truth.”

He didn’t look back, not once, when he stormed from Coulson’s office. He was too afraid to look back and see the destruction his outburst had just caused.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Natasha found him, three hours later in the waiting area of a local ER to have his hand casted, she lowered herself into a chair next to him and stared him down.

“You’re an idiot.”

Clint quirked an eyebrow.

“Because I just got cleared by medical and here I am, back in the ER with a broken hand?”

There was a calculated pause, before Natasha drew in a deep breath.

“…well, I suppose there’s that, too.”

Clint huffed a sad laugh before leaning his shoulder into her, his head rested against hers. Yeah, he was definitely an idiot.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Phil sighed heavily as he stared around his empty apartment. He was willing to admit that it felt less like his home since the day Natasha turned up to take Clint back to the Tower. It’d hurt and confused him when he heard Clint had used his make-shift cell phone to contact the woman and have her come to check things out. He knew he’d treated the agent in a way that was less than comforting after that night on the couch, and he hated himself for doing so. He should have realized that it had embarrassed Barton. More so than the discovery had surprised him. The fact that Clint had gone running from the room and hid the entire night should have been enough to get Phil’s mind to stop freaking out and go to make sure the other was alright.

Instead though, Phil had run. He’d slept on the couch and slipped out that morning before Clint could wake up. And when he’d finally come back, he’d been cold and distant. Two things he’d never in his life, _ever_ wanted to be to people he cared about. Especially not Clint.

With a heavy heart, he moved through the apartment, straightening things here and there and scooping up clothes to toss in for the wash. He’d kept the Hawkeye dog costume, along with the cell phone. Both pieces had found their way reverently to Coulson’s bedroom bookshelf; the costume folded and placed directly behind the Hawkeye action figure, and the modified phone on top of the outfit. He hadn’t done much cleaning after Clint left; he hadn’t been home _to_ do cleaning. After being instructed by Fury though to take at least a couple of days off, he’d decided to at least take care of his laundry. He liked his suits well enough, but there was no way he was going to sit around his house wearing them for two days.

He’d just turned to move for his laundry basket when the corner of something sticking out from under his bed caught his eye. A sad smile crossed his face as he lifted up the blankets and looked under for the first time in months. He’d known Clint had been sleeping under there, he just had no idea that there was a _nest_ under him the entire time.

His breath caught in his throat as he pulled the original blanket out into the middle of his floor. A _nest_. Clint had told him once, on some distant mission to some distant location, that the nests weren’t so much a play on his nickname as they were a security thing. He would gather all the things he liked, or the things that made him feel safe, and he would hoard them away. That way he knew he had somewhere safe to retreat to when he needed to.

Clint had built one of his nests under Coulson’s bed. It was practically the most ultimate sign of trust from the man Phil could ever get. A signal to the agent that Barton felt safe with him, protected and secure.

It suddenly became harder for Phil to swallow as he flattened himself on his stomach and wormed his way further under the bed. He ignored the urge to sneeze as he shoved a suitcase aside and saw what else Clint had collected in the twenty days he’d spent with him. That sneaker that Phil had been going nuts trying to find; his favorite book he’d been wanting to re-read again for the hundredth time but hadn’t had time to; the Cubs T-shirt he’d been meaning to donate to Goodwill but kept forgetting about; and flattened into the carpet from repeatedly being slept on, was Phil’s heather grey sweatshirt.

A lump choked him as his lungs seized up. The image of Clint sliding across his living room floor on his nose, the shirt pooled up around him and comically large on his short frame flashed in front him of. All those times Barton had tried to steal it from him and then finally succeeded. Phil pulled the shirt towards him and held it close. It reeked of overly stale sweat, but more than that it smelled like Clint. The impact of that hit him hard in the chest and he had to scramble out from under his bed just to breathe again.

When he moved to throw the sweatshirt in the basket, his hand stuttered to a stop. A picture, or rather, _half_ of a picture fluttered down into his lap from the folds of his shirt. Phil knew without looking at it what it’d be, but his fingers moved anyways. Half of the photo had been torn or chewed off, the half with Monica the side that was absent; while the side that showed him, dressed down to casual level complete with baseball cap and bright, open smile, stared back at him. Clint had been so careful not to damage Phil’s side of the picture and had snuck it into his nest at some point. No, not some point. Phil knew _exactly_ when Clint had tucked it away in the folds of the sweatshirt.

He’d snuck it in right as Natasha knocked on the door the first time. Even though Phil had treated him like shit and even though Clint had felt it would be better if he just left the apartment and got away from the man, Clint had still wanted to hoard away the last little piece he’d had that made him feel safe. He’d wanted to keep the picture with the smile Phil had given him so many times in the weeks they were together.

Staring at the picture for a long, hard minute, Phil finally scrambled to his feet and went tripping out the door.

God he was such an idiot.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 _“Agent Barton? You have a visitor waiting outside your door._ ” JARVIS’s crisp voice called through the suite. Clint looked up from where he’d been laying on the couch, his neon purple casted right hand resting on his stomach.

“Who is it?”

 _“They’ve asked that I not disclose that information. They did say to assure you that they merely wish to speak with you. Shall I…ask them to leave?”_ There was a hesitance to the AI’s voice that threw Clint for a loop. If JARVIS was sounding hesitant (which, really, what was his life that he was suddenly concerned about what could have an AI hesitant?) then he wasn’t so sure he _wanted_ to know who was on the other side of the door.

Still, he was feeling pretty good at the moment; the good painkillers for his hand certainly did what the doctors said they would, and then some! Shaking his head, he levered himself up off the couch and shuffled barefoot across the floor.

“Nah, that’s alright. I got it. Anything happens I’ll just smash their skull in with my cast, right?”

“ _Very good, sir._ ”

Clint chuckled softly as he reached the door and pulled it open. He brain shut down at what he saw in front of him. Faded, worn jeans that were perfectly broken in; sneakers that the right shoe had teeth marks bit into the leather; a threadbare sweatshirt that just barely came down over the waistband of those jeans (the sleeves casually shoved up to his elbows on as it was June); a soft, hesitant smile; apologetic grey eyes; and a dark blue ball cap.

Fuck. He really was on the good drugs if he was starting to hallucinate like that.

“You aren’t hallucinating, Clint. But I’m flattered that if you were this is something you’d approve of.”

“…Stark didn’t slip that fucking collar back around my neck while I was sleeping, did he?”

Phil’s smile grew until it crinkled in the corners of his eyes.

“No. You’re collar free. Promise. May I come in? I’d…I’d really like to speak with you.”

For a brief moment, Clint considered slamming the door in Phil’s face. It was only a passing thought though. He’d lost his steam long before Natasha found him at the hospital. He didn’t want to fight or scream or freak out any more.

With a shrug, he stepped to the side and let the other man enter. The door closed with a soft click as Clint slid past Phil and motioned him further into the suite. He was still feeling pretty wobbly on his feet from the painkillers, whatever Coulson had to say to him, the man could tell him while sitting down.

“So, what can I do for you, Agent Coulson?”

“Clint, I want to apologize. For what I said in the office. You were right. I shouldn’t have said nothing happened while you were with me.” Coulson sounded nervous, uncertain, as he fidgeted his fingers in the hem of his sweatshirt.

“Damn, they really do have me on the good shit. You sure I’m not hallucinating? I coulda sworn you just said I was right.”

Phil laughed softly and the sound brought a smile to Clint’s face. God he’d missed hearing that laugh.

“You were right. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said and for how I reacted that night. What happened on the couch? It shouldn’t have changed the way I behaved towards you. I betrayed your trust in me, made you feel things that no one should ever be made to feel and you have no idea how much I hate myself for doing so.”

Clint shifted awkwardly, his eyes found a sudden interest in the floor. He didn’t look up when Phil moved to sit next to him, hand reaching out to touch Clint’s knee but aborting halfway and landing on the cushion next to his hip instead. 

“I was scared, Clint.” Phil paused for a moment to stare at his hand on the couch, so close to Clint’s leg that he could stretch his fingers just a little bit more and be able to touch. “All the things I’d felt for you, they scared me. It scared me more that I was falling even more in lo--…that those feelings for you were getting even stronger the more time we spent together. That they were getting stronger while you were…”

“While I was capable of licking my own balls?”

“Inappropriate, Barton, but yes.”

A huff of a half-laugh escaped Clint’s mouth as he finally lifted his eyes and looked at Phil. God the man was even more gorgeous in full living color. There wasn’t much space between them and from that short distance Clint could nearly count every faded freckle that specked across his nose. The tip of his tongue flicked out to wet his lips and he forced himself to swallow against the knot in his throat.

“You thought you were falling for a dog, instead of me?”

Pink crawled up from under the collar of Phil’s shirt and oh how Clint wanted to lean in and follow it up his neck with his tongue.

“That was…yeah. That was basically my major concern.”

“Ya know,” Clint smirked after a moment, his leg swinging out to nudge against Phil’s gently, “Nat told me that if I didn’t change back I should convince you to move to some country where they were cool with bestiality and we could live happily ever after.”

Phil’s face broke out into the most amazing embarrassed smile and laugh that the archer had ever seen or heard. It helped to uncoil the grip that had wound itself around his chest all those days ago and settled his uneasy stomach. When those grey eyes met his, shining so brightly with all the life and lightness he’d seen before, the rest of his concerns melted away.

All of them, save for one.

“Listen, Phil, I should apologize too. For what I did when your…when your girlfriend was over. I was stupid and jealous and immature and I owe Tasha money for what she paid to replace all Monica’s things. I shouldn’t have done what I did. And I shouldn’t have said the things I said in your office. I’m sure she’s actually a real nice gal and you deserve all the happiness you can get. I—“

“We broke up.”

Clint froze mid-word and just gapped at Phil. There was no way he’d just heard what he thought he heard.

“You…” he stammered while Phil nodded and looked down at his hands.

“Turns out she wasn’t a dog person and…well, I’d always hoped to one day have a dog. Plus, there’s someone else I was far more interested in. Things weren’t really working between us anymore. Not since she moved back to Portland.”

He could feel his eyes getting wider, his jaw dropping lower. He had to be dreaming. It wasn’t possible that Phil broke up with his girlfriend and now was sitting on his couch, confessing these things to him. Not after everything Clint had messed up. There was just no way.

“B-But…But I thought you…she…you…she was a she, sir. I am really not. I—“ Clint trailed off when Phil leveled him with his best droll stare. The man had clearly been taking notes when Stark did it because Clint suddenly felt like he was about to be put on the short bus for not catching this sooner. When it did finally click, his eyebrows shot to his forehead and his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“You…You bat for the Cubs _and_ the White Sox, don’t you?”

Phil rolled his eyes good naturedly at the two Chicago baseball teams reference. That was one way to ask if he was bisexual. Finally, he reached to put his hand on Barton’s knee. It was the first time he’d touched Clint-the-human in a way that wasn’t to apply first aid (actually, second, but Clint was too out of it from turning back into a human to remember that first time. Someday Phil’d tell him about it). While it wasn’t anything suggestive or sexual, it still felt comfortably intimate and calming.

“Remind me again sometime why I’m attracted to you.”

For the second time in weeks, Clint’s laughter echoed through the Tower. It bounced off the walls and surrounded them on the couch. For a long moment they sat in comfortable silence, smiles playing on both their faces as they took in all the subtle little details of the other’s face.

“So, what happens now?” Barton’s voice was soft and gentle, barely much more than a whisper as he lost himself in Phil’s eyes and just slightly opened smile. Was he still hurt and angry over the way he’d been treated while Monica was there? Yeah, but that was to be expected. He wasn’t going to dwell on it too much. That didn’t mean Coulson was completely off the hook about it though. They would definitely be having a talk about it later.

“Well, if it’s alright with you,” Phil ducked his head slightly, that faint pink working its way back up to the tips of his ears. His voice was soft and gentle as he looked back up from under dark lashes. “I’d kind of like to take Clint-the-Human for a walk and possibly grab a bite to eat while we’re out?”

Clint’s smile grew as his head bobbed up and down slowly. He’d been waiting ages to hear those words. Carefully, he moved from the couch, his good hand out to help pull Phil back up to his feet as well. How long had the archer been wanting to hold the man’s hand in his? It felt like lifetimes since he’d first realized he was falling for his handler. The events that caused him to leave Phil’s apartment were still in his mind, carefully being filed and put aside to be dealt with later. He wasn’t desperate to give them a chance, but he wasn’t stupid enough to let the chance pass him by either. Linking their fingers together, he turned to glance at their hands before looking back into Coulson’s eyes.

“Sounds good to me. I know this great little park in Chelsea we could go to. Used to go jogging there for awhile. Oh, and there’s this vendor, down on West 23rd St that serves the best damn hot dogs I have ever tasted in my life. I swear he puts crack in ‘em or something.” Clint’s eyes twinkled softly as he let his lips curl up into a lopsided grin.

“Chelsea, huh?” Phil chuckled lightly as he nodded and played along. “I think I know the park and dog cart you’re talking about. Sounds nice. Maybe afterwards we can go back to my apartment and watch bad reality TV. I hear there’s a _Storage Wars_ marathon on tonight.”

Clint let go of Phil’s hand just long enough to slip into his boots and lace them. Phil waited by the door, his hand on the knob and just watched patiently. Stepping into the hall, the archer couldn’t fight the smile that was plastered across his face.

“ _Storage Wars,_ huh? I guess I could live with that. Hey! That reminds me though. What color’s the carpet in your room? It kept bugging the hell out of me every time I was in there but since dogs can’t see color all I could tell was that it was light grey-ish. Please tell me your carpet isn’t that boring…...”

 


	4. Bonus Scene, Art Work and lyrics

*Bonus scene*

_Three months later…_

Clint sighed softly, his nose buried in Phil’s heather grey sweatshirt. The light from the streets below flittered in through the windows and casted the figurines on the bookshelf in shadows. They were still arranged the same way they had been the first time Clint saw them all those months ago. Some arranged just to be on display; others to look as if they were engaged in battle. The picture frame was still there, a new picture of Clint and Phil (Clint draped over Phil’s shoulder at a Cubs vs. Mets game; that bright, open laughing smile stretched across Phil’s face and his hat tilted up and back slightly while Clint made the most obnoxious gagging face he possibly could at being forced into going to a Cubs game. The Mets were bad enough) replaced the one that had been there. The frame still separated the group of figures from the one lone Hawkeye at the edge of the shelf.

The light from the bathroom flipped off and a moment later Phil slid into bed behind Clint, his lips brushing gently over the back of his boyfriend’s neck.

“That shirt’s gonna need to be washed pretty soon, Clint. We’ve gone over this before…”

“Eh. It’s still got a couple days.”

Phil snorted softly as he kissed the nape of the man’s neck and rolled to lie on his stomach. Clint was quiet for a moment, his eyes still locked on that figure on the shelf.

“Phil?”

“Mm?”

“How come you have multiples of all the others, but only have one of me? And how come I’m way the fuck over there by myself?”

The sound of fabric rustling next to him had him turning his head to look through the partial darkness into Phil’s grey eyes. For a moment, neither of them said anything. It made Clint wonder if maybe Phil wasn’t going to answer him or if that had been another question that he should have already known the answer to.

“That was the best looking one they’d made of you.” Phil finally answered. And yeah, it sounded like it should have been obvious.

“Oh…uh…what?”

Phil sighed heavily and rolled back onto his side, his head propped on his hand and his eyes already drooping slightly. He’d already been worn out when they’d gotten home earlier that night, but then Clint had to go and start something Phil wasn’t about to let him not finish. Now he was sated, relaxed, and really just wanted to go to sleep.

“It was the only one that looked good. The others they’d made of you looked ridiculous and nothing like you. That one had the features and planes right, all of your mannerisms down, hell even the hair color is almost right. Plus, it was the most expensive one. You really think I’d buy one of those crappy little things Stark approved of when I’d already paid close to $200 to get that one?”

Clint practically fell over at that. There were action figures of _him_ out there that cost _$200_?! Shit!!

“As for why it’s by itself over there.” Phil smiled softly as he laid back down on his stomach, his head turned so he was still looking at Clint. “It’s there because it’s closer to the bed that way, without being in the alarm clock danger zone, and so that it’s the last thing I saw at night and first thing I saw in the morning.”

Warmth crept up from Clint’s stomach at those words. That…made a lot more sense than what he’d been thinking. He liked that reason a lot better, actually. Smiling, he moved to lean down and press a slow, lazy kiss to Phil’s lips. His hand slid over the small of the man’s back and was just creeping down under his sleeper pants again when a soft whine and scrape at the door interrupted them.

_“Hey! Hey! I gotta pee! I gotta pee! Guys! Hey guys! Hey! I gotta pee! Take me out! Take me out! Take me out! C’mooooooooon! I’ve been good! I’ve been quiet! I gotta go! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?”_

Clint groaned, his head thunking against Phil’s shoulder as the older man laughed softly. Reaching a hand up, he ruffled through the archer’s soft hair gently.

“You’re turn. I took him out after dinner.”

“I hate you.” Clint muttered. “I hate you. I hate Stark. I hate that damn collar…”

Laughing, Phil smiled as he snuggled himself back under the warm, down comforter. A cold September chill had started to settle over New York and Phil was thankful to have a warm bed and warm body to fall asleep with at night. Cracking open an eye, he watched as Clint pulled his jeans back on and slipped into Phil’s dog-bite-sneakers.

“Aren’t you glad I talked you out of adopting _all_ the shelter dogs now?”

 A lump of fabric struck him square in the face as the bedroom door opened. The sound of tags jingling filled the air, along with the bouncing of anxious paws and the strange, computer generated voice of a dog with a talking-psychic-collar. Still smiling, Phil pushed himself out of bed and shuffled for his gym bag. The shirt would be gone again by morning, but, he’d steal it back again eventually, when it’d finally lost its smell and Clint demanded it be washed and worn so it could be stolen again later.

Crawling back into bed, Phil’s eyes settled on the Hawkeye figurine. A smile slid across his face as he stared past the overly expensive (but worth every penny) toy and settled on the dog costume still folded and displayed behind it. Sighing contently, he let his eyes fall shut.

“G’nite, Clint.”

“Sweet dreams, Phil.”

The bedroom door clicked shut quietly and Phil drifted peacefully to sleep. 

 

* * *

Art work

*Click the picture to be taken to the full sized version*

 

 

* * *

Lryics (as promised)

Miss You More --BBMac

There's so many reasons that I find  
To run to you  
Cause there's so little lovin'  
In my life now I'm away  
  
And thinkin' about it  
I want things back  
How they used to be  
Cause there's no way around it  
Nothing good comes easily  
  
So much between us  
  
And we both know that it's wrong  
So I keep on waiting  
'til I'm back where I belong  
  
CHORUS  
So here I am  
All by myself  
Thinkin' of you  
Nobody else  
There's a feeling inside  
And as hard as I try  
It just won't go away  
Are you findin' it hard  
All on your own?  
Having to face each night alone  
Knowing you are the one  
With the love that I need  
And I miss you more each day  
  
So many feelings  
emotions running away with me  
Cause it's you I believe in  
And our love that runs so deep  
  
So much between us  
And we both know that it's wrong  
Now I keep on waiting  
'til I'm back where I belong  
(Back where I belong)  
  
(CHORUS)  
  
So I keep on waiting  
'til I'm back where I belong  
Back where I belong  
  
(CHORUS to fade)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have reached the end. Congratulations my friends. You survived through my first ever Corgi!Clint _NOVEL_. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the story and the drawings...even if only one is a finished product. I'll post the second one when I get around to finishing it. 
> 
> Please don't forget to kudo/bookmark/comment. It's the little things in life that make me happy. Please make me happy. xD

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Clint or Phil...cuz if I did...uh...no, never mind. We'll leave that thought alone. Anyways, I don't own 'em, Marvel (and now Disney) hold the claims to them. Once again, I'm just playing in their sandbox and making a mess all over the place. I regret nothing. The title of this story is also shameless stolen from the BBMac song "Miss You More"...which for whatever reason I have come to consider my main Corgi!Clint writing song. I'm not sure why, but it gives me all kinds of Corgi!Clint and Coulson pheels. (please see end of story for lyrics to the song, cuz, yeah in my mind they totally fit)


End file.
